


Flowers From Hell

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Babysitting, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Cuttings, Family Bonding, Fluff, Gifts, Humor, I Don't Even Know, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Jealousy, Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Personal Growth, Pining, Plant Watering, Romantic Gestures, Self-Pruning, Sentient Plants, Showers, Slow Burn, Surprises, Temporary Duck Harm, everyone loves Aziraphale, minor self-mutilation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23380195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Aziraphale makes more of an effort to be involved with Crowley's interests and hobbies.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1515
Kudos: 1020
Collections: Humorous Omens, Most Favs





	1. Ivy

**Author's Note:**

> So, yes, this is my ridiculous plant story. I think everyone is allowed to have one. The idea amused me, and I couldn't resist.

Aziraphale knows that Crowley's home before he enters the lift. There's always a low, simmering demonic charge to the flat whenever he's in residence. Though he'd always felt it best not to phrase it quite like that to him, for fear that it would touch a nerve. For all that Crowley is a bright and unique individual, quite unlike his fellow demons, and more familiar to Aziraphale's senses than anything on earth, Heaven, or Hell, his basic nature is still very much infernal. 

Since Armageddon failed to happen on schedule Aziraphale has been trying to make a habit of visiting him regularly, of calling on him socially with wine, or gifts. He's been trying his very best to make up for being such an awful friend. For the many long years where Crowley was the only one of them who regularly visited, who reached out, who always seemed so glad of his company. Crowley was the one who extended invitations, who gave gifts, who freely offered his help when Aziraphale needed it. While Aziraphale, to his regret, wasted too much time fretting and blundering his way through their time together, parroting an embarrassing amount of Heaven's rhetoric. He'd been too much of a coward to meet Crowley halfway, to grasp his hand in friendship, to admit that he missed him when he was gone, that he was afraid for him constantly, for his stupid, reckless bravery. To tell Crowley that he was wanted, and valued, and loved.

Being a good friend is not something that Aziraphale has had much practice with. But he's making the effort - so to speak.

He'd been uncertain at first, if his visits would be welcome. He's never really imposed himself into Crowley's life before, no matter how many openings the demon had given him, how many addresses he'd noted down in his spiky handwriting and slid across a table. Expression pinched and dismissive, like it didn't matter, when Aziraphale had known that it had, it always had. But when Aziraphale had voiced his concerns, Crowley had made a deeply rude noise, before he'd even finished speaking, insisting that Aziraphale could visit him any time he pleased. That he didn't even have to send a card, or ring ahead first. That he could even help himself to wine and fridge snacks if Crowley was asleep. His house was Aziraphale's house.

Which, Aziraphale will admit, had left him a tad emotional. 

Though he still prefers to knock first, to wait a socially acceptable amount of time to be invited in. Before he'll use a miracle to open the door, to venture in and announce himself.

The long hall of Crowley's flat is currently empty, a stretch of unwelcoming grey that Aziraphale can't help but find welcoming nonetheless. The whole place _feels_ like Crowley, and the fact that he has an open invitation to his intimate space now is genuinely touching. He sets the bottle of wine he'd brought with him on the small table just inside, calling further in, with the expectation that the demon will be out presently. 

There's a low, quiet rustle from the atrium, where Crowley keeps his finest plants. The beautiful and often terrified rows of them are always so tall and glossy, and fantastically well maintained. Aziraphale regrets that he hadn't taken more of an interest in Crowley's hobbies. It wouldn't have been too difficult, he imagines, to seek out rare specimens to offer the demon. When he's been given so many long sought after volumes, and unpublished manuscripts in turn. Perhaps he could encourage Crowley to open up more, with a few well thought out questions pertaining to his plants, and their various needs. He knows Crowley has been absorbed in a special project recently, he'll make a point to ask about it today.

Aziraphale heads into the stretch of greenery, following the tap of feet on tiles, and the quiet swish of foliage. He catches a flash of red hair at the end of the room, behind a messy spray of deep green leaves, then another flash, of what might be the long, pale curve of a shoulder. 

"Crowley?"

The whole room smells damp, thick with fresh soil and crushed plant matter, and it grows stronger the deeper in Aziraphale ventures. He's sure the room wasn't quite so large before, it's clearly been expanded since he visited last, a deep bed of soil is now packed at the back of the room.

"Crowley." Aziraphale eases a large spray of damp leaves aside. "I hope I'm not too early, I was -"

Crowley is standing by the far wall, carefully touching the valley in the middle of a large leaf with curious, repetitive motions.

He's also quite naked.

It's - it's unexpected to say the least.

"Oh."

Aziraphale hasn't seen the demon naked since he was forced to strip in a field in 1030AD after falling into a bog. Out of politeness he'd mostly carried on a conversation with the pile of soggy clothes Crowley had been irritably tugging free. But he still somehow has a vivid recollection of the pale, mud-smeared lines of him, his angular, narrow hips, long limbs, and curving, freckled back.

" _Crowley_ , oh Heavens, I apologise, I had no idea I was - ah - interrupting something. I shall just take myself -" Aziraphale briefly tries to walk into a plant after turning too far, knocks over something which sounds heavy with soil. "- I shall take myself out until you've - until you've finished."

He discovers the right direction out of the leaves, only to find himself stopped by long fingers curled into the pale material of his jacket, gripping and pulling at it in a confused sort of way. Aziraphale comes to a stuttering stop, turning back to the naked demon who'd so quickly ensnared him. He's briefly too surprised and embarrassed to manage words. But the movement also brings him close enough to get a better look at Crowley's face. To notice immediately that there's an oddly vacant look to his eyes, as if he's not entirely there.

"Crowley." All thought of abandoning him is cast aside. "Are you alright?"

Crowley continues to tug at Aziraphale's jacket, giving no indication that's he'd heard or understood him. His posture is strangely stiff too, giving the impression that he'd forgotten how joints work, every movement jerky and unnatural, even for Crowley. Aziraphale reaches out and steadies him by his narrow, naked waist, feels him still completely under the touch. His skin is unexpectedly cold, clammy, as if he'd been sweating out a fever.

"Did something happen to your corporation? Did someone do this to you?" Aziraphale extends his senses, something he should have done straight away. But there are no unfamiliar notes to the demonic energy of the flat, nothing angelic either. No matter how far Aziraphale extends himself, how carefully he picks through the layers of Crowley's wards. Which are as tight and as well-constructed as they always are. He can't sense any threats, and yet clearly something is very wrong with Crowley.

There's a twitching, repetitive ' _scratch, scratch'_ of nails against the material of his jacket, and a slow tip and bob of head on Crowley's thin neck. It almost seems like he's searching for something. As if he's trying to find the direction a sound is coming from. 

"Can you understand me?" Aziraphale asks quietly.

The answer is clearly no. The scratching continues, and suddenly he can't bear it. He lifts a hand to stop the movement, to envelope and then squeeze Crowley's chilly fingers, until they relax in his grip.

"Crowley, please talk to me, my dear."

The demon says nothing, instead Crowley's fingers slip-slide against his own, tangle and then pull testingly. Before a slow smile stretches across his face. Aziraphale has never seen its like before, and it disturbs and frightens him far more than the silence. He carefully separates their fingers, and eases Crowley's hands down to rest against his sides.

"I'm hoping this is just a disconnect between you and the corporation, something you've ingested, perhaps? But I'm going to have a quick look inside at the state of your essence, just to be sure. I would ask your permission, but you're clearly not currently able to give it. I promise not to look at anything that isn't pertinent." He lays his hands on the sides of Crowley's face, which draws a hum out of the demon, it feels surprised and pleased, and he turns into Aziraphale's warmth like a flower towards the sun.

Only no matter how deep he goes, Aziraphale can find no demonic signature inside him at all. Crowley's body is still clearly demonic, but there's no occult power within him, no swell and nudge of familiar essence against his own. Crowley is completely and utterly empty, there's nothing inside the body but the most basic of responses, but they're now tangled and confused, strangely alien to his senses. Aziraphale can feel a terrible, awful panic swelling inside him, at the suggestion that his demon is nowhere to be found inside this corporation. That Crowley has been hollowed out entirely for some reason, or by someone, and taken somewhere, or worse, or unimaginably worse -

"Ah, I see the Magnoliophyta Infernis has bloomed."

Aziraphale's corporation very nearly has a heart attack, because the voice isn't coming from in front of him, but from the entrance to the room. He turns quickly, arm extended protectively in front of Crowley - which makes no sense at all, because Crowley is also standing in the doorway. Dressed in tight jeans, shirt and jacket in familiar shades of black and charcoal, snake buckle shining at his waist. He's leaning at a frankly impossible angle against the wall, sunglasses covering his eyes, hair an artistic, rust-coloured wing. Aziraphale has never been so relieved and so confused at the same time. 

"I'm sorry, what?" he says helplessly, looking between the two of them.

"The Hell Flower." Crowley nods his head towards his naked double, who fixes that strange open smile in his direction, eyes widening at Crowley, as if in recognition, before dropping half shut. A long hand fidgets, before slowly lifting and curling back around the edge of Aziraphale's jacket.

"I'm sorry, _what?_ " Aziraphale manages again, because he feels as if repetition is required here.

Crowley comes closer, in a slow slink of lazy hips that puts him next to Aziraphale, and his impossible mirror image. Then to Aziraphale's surprise Crowley reaches out and catches his double's chin, tips his face this way and that, frowning sharply, as if he's checking him for imperfections. The double submits to the attention with a quiet sort of acceptance. Until Crowley makes a satisfied noise at whatever he finds, or doesn't find, and lets him go. The other mirror image of him leaves his chin tilted where Crowley had left it, for a long moment, before it slowly tips back down. 

"It's a hybrid," Crowley explains, with more than a hint of pride in his voice. His hands push into his pockets as he rocks on the balls of his feet, making the differences between them even more stark. "Some of the larger carnivorous plants that grow up here, some of the spiky, blood-draining vines from downstairs. I mean, their flowering bodies are usually quadrupedal but that's mostly because they have to chase things in Hell, fast buggers hellhounds. I thought I'd try it with a bit of my own corporation's flesh and blood, so it knew how to make a body. S'why it looks like me. Tricky business it is, needs a lot of biomass, then some careful grafting to make sure it grows one big bud rather than a bunch of little ones."

Aziraphale, for the first time, notices the huge, dripping mess of plant matter at the back of the room, which does somewhat resemble an abandoned banana skin, and could theoretically have been large enough to contain a Crowley-sized mass. Though picturing that is rather more disturbing than he would like it to be.

"It's a plant?" he says faintly, exhaling a confused sort of relief. Even if it does sound utterly ridiculous coming out of his mouth. He turns to look again, finds Crowley's face watching him from both sides. One with their mouth twisted in amusement, glasses nudged down enough for him to look over the top of them, the other with a dreamlike, blank sort of patience. It's a deeply strange experience.

"Eh." Crowley's face pulls into a frown, as he tips his head from side to side. "Well, it's a flower, to be exact. And it was a lot of work to even _get_ it to flower, it needed exactly the right environment, with tiny, constant licks of Hellfire when it was sprouting. That's why I didn't want you to come in here for a bit, while I was getting it settled in. It grew much better than I was expecting though." Crowley's doing a fantastic job of looking relaxed, but there's a jittery sort of tension to him, as if he's found himself unexpectedly showing off something he wasn't quite ready to. 

"It grew - yes, of course it did, it's very impressive." Aziraphale remembers, suddenly, that he'd decided to take more of an interest in how Crowley spends his time, to be more supportive of his hobbies and talents, and this seems an excellent - a deeply strange, but excellent - opportunity. So he takes a moment to get a good look at the flower that so perfectly resembles his best friend. He really is identical, which makes sense, Aziraphale supposes, since he is effectively a copy of Crowley's corporation. Though the complete lack of any of the expressions and physical quirks that Aziraphale has become so intimately familiar with, is more than a little disturbing. No sharp intelligence, or dry amusement, no wary mistrust, or gentle teasing, no quickly smothered glances of exquisite fondness. There's just a quiet, strange newness that, now he understands it, he feels strangely protective of. "Hello," he says at last. "I'm Aziraphale, I expect you're going to need a name as well."

Crowley sighs beside him, mutters something which sounds a lot like 'Satan, give me strength.'

"It's a flower, Aziraphale, it has all the mental capacity of a particularly assertive cabbage. It doesn't need a name." 

Aziraphale frowns, because that doesn't seem entirely fair.

"Crowley, he looks like you. I thought it was you when I first arrived. I felt your presence and I found him in here. I was terribly afraid that someone had gotten to you, done something to you. He felt like an empty corporation that someone had - had cored you out of." 

Crowley winces, and there's something guilty in the expression that comes after.

"M'sorry," he says. It's muttered, and almost too quick to catch, as if he thinks he'll be punished for it. But the fact that he'd voiced it at all has Aziraphale forgiving him instantly. "I was on the roof. I felt you come in, but figured you'd just have a glass of wine until I came down. I didn't mean for you to stumble on it unexpectedly like that. Certainly didn't think you'd try and -" Crowley gestures with an elbow, to indicate Aziraphale's attempt to feel out its essence. "It must have been a bit disturbing to find it full of confusing plant thoughts."

Aziraphale nods, and for all that Crowley is clearly perfectly fine and unharmed, the memory is still a touch unsettling. But something else does occur to him, he tuts briefly, and snatches a blanket out of the ether, carefully wraps it around the flower's bony shoulders. He makes no attempt to cover himself with it, but he does lift an edge of the material and finger it curiously, eyes wide. 

"It really doesn't need a name or a blanket, angel," Crowley says, a flicker of irritation under the amusement. "It's a plant, and if I name it, you know you'll just get attached. I'm trying to train it up for pest control, I can't have you spoiling it. How many times have you told me I shouldn't be anthropomorphising the plants, hmm?"

"None of them looked exactly like you before," Aziraphale protests, because he thinks that's an important point. That and the nudity, but he feels like they're both carefully ignoring that. "It's hard not to -" get attached? Goodness no, he can't phrase it like that. "Feel a certain sense of responsibility," he finishes at last, then wonders if that's any better.

Crowley rolls his head, since he's never quite gotten the hang of rolling his eyes.

"I _am_ responsible for it," he points out, rather more firmly than is probably necessary. "I grew it, and I know you, if I give it a name then there's no way you're going to let me take cuttings."

Aziraphale hopes he looks appropriately horrified. "Please tell me that doesn't mean what I think it means?"

Crowley just looks at him over his glasses, which is answer enough.

"I don't think it can feel pain," he says at last, reluctantly.

"You don't _think_ it can feel pain?" Aziraphale looks back at the flowering Crowley, who's now hovering at his shoulder, expression above the soft drape of the blanket strangely open and trusting. Oh, no, he couldn't possibly allow that.

Crowley sighs and rubs his eyes under the sunglasses, muttering something about root vegetables not getting to decide on the menu. But then seems to relent with a noise of surrender.

"Fine, fine, if it makes you happy, it can have a name. I dunno, it's a flowering vine that's almost indestructible, so I'll call it Ivy, I guess?" Crowley shrugs, then reaches out a hand, jabs the flower version of himself in the middle of his bare chest. Which leaves the poor thing swaying gently on his new feet. "Ivy, there ya go, that's your name."

Ivy still seems more interested in the blanket that's been wrapped around him than having a name bestowed upon him. Blinking at it with a sort of surprised and curious fascination. Aziraphale thinks about it for a moment, and then miracles the blanket into a pair of dark brown jeans in the style that Crowley favours, and a soft woolen sweater the same colour as the large, glossy leaves in the background. He's encouraged by the way Ivy's long nose wrinkles in pleasure, making a low humming sound and lifting hands to touch himself. His bare toes press and clench on the floor, like roots trying to anchor into soil, but when Aziraphale steps forward to fix his sleeves he shuffles a tiny bit closer, as if drawn to Aziraphale's warmth.

Crowley makes an annoyed noise behind him. 

"Don't _dress it_ , for Satan's sake - Aziraphale, what are you doing?" 

Aziraphale ignores him, since he's being obstinate about the whole thing. This is a perfect opportunity for the both of them to share an interest. Crowley doesn't have to hide anything any more.

"Do you think he's hungry?" Aziraphale isn't sure whether plants can feel hunger.

"What - it's not going to - it's a plant, it's not _hungry_. I should know, I've been growing it for the last three months."

"A carnivorous plant, I believe you said," Aziraphale says, to prove that he was listening. "Oh, they do the most delicious steaks at -"

" _Angel_ , are you listening to a word I'm saying? We're not taking the hybrid demon flower out to dinner."

"Well, how were you planning to feed him then?" Aziraphale can't help but ask.

Crowley throws his hands up. "I was mostly going to toss some bonemeal on the floor for it, maybe mulch a few rats into the soil I bed it down in at night. During the day I'll probably just stick it under a few UV lamps, where it'll almost certainly stay until I move it, because it's a brainless vegetable." There's a certain amount of strangled frustration under the words, as if this is not at all going how Crowley expected.

But that sounds like a thoroughly miserable and very lonely experience to Aziraphale. 

"Nonsense, it's an absolutely lovely day. We can introduce him as your brother. It will be a learning experience for him." He takes Ivy's skinny, sweater-clad arm, and gently guides him on wobbly feet out into the main area of Crowley's flat. "I think you're going to like the park. There's plenty of sunshine, and it's very green, lots of fresh air and insects and things." Aziraphale has reached the extent of his knowledge as to what plants like. He really should have made more of an effort to appreciate Crowley's hobbies. He's going to make up for it though. 

Crowley follows him, expression conflicted, but he seems unwilling to stop him outright. Honestly, you don't grow a person-sized flower, with rudimentary intelligence, and then just stand them in a room to - to absorb nutrients. Aziraphale knows nothing about plants but he's quite certain of that.

"Aziraphale, I haven't studied his blooming period or anything yet. He could pollinate in direct sunlight, for Hell's sake."

"Oh." Aziraphale stops, because that's definitely an important consideration. There's certainly an inherent danger in possibly introducing hybrid infernal pollen to the already fairly polluted London air. There's no telling what could result from that. "I didn't think of that."

"Right, see, exactly." Crowley's shoulders relax.

"Yes, you're quite right," Aziraphale agrees with a nod, and quickly miracles Ivy a lovely broad-brimmed hat, and some sunglasses much like Crowley's. Which he immediately tries to grip with his fingers, until Aziraphale makes soothing noises and gently pulls his hands down.

"That was literally the opposite of what I wanted," Crowley protests flatly. He cuts the way Ivy is still holding Aziraphale's hand a dirty look. Which is ridiculous, Aziraphale is not in any way _stealing_ Ivy from him, he's simply using his unexpected flowering as an excuse for them to venture outside, and talk about the plants that the demon loves, to give him the opportunity to brag about how clever he's been. Crowley is coming with them, of course he is, Aziraphale is not interested in going anywhere without him, and he can take charge of Ivy whenever he likes. There's absolutely no need to be jealous.

But, still, he looks so annoyed that Aziraphale can't help but deflate a touch.

"I'm trying to be more involved with things that you enjoy," he explains quietly "I'm trying to take an interest. I've been terribly ignorant about so much that you do, and I thought it would be a nice opportunity for you to tell me more about them. But perhaps you're right, perhaps it's a silly idea. You've indulged me far too much already, of course, we'll stay here."

Crowley slowy and obviously folds in on himself, as Aziraphale talks, as if the words are physically painful. Once he's finished there's a long, strained hiss, and then the quiet sound of his name. Before Crowley abruptly straightens, grumbles something that's too mangled to hear, and grabs his keys and phone off the desk.

"Alright, fine, _fine_ , we'll take the one-of-a-kind result of three months of my hard work out for a steak dinner, and a walk through the park, and if it pollinates anywhere it shouldn't, then you're sparing a miracle to fix it."

Aziraphale gives a quick wriggle of delight at Crowley's agreement, reaching out in a moment of bravery and affection to squeeze the hand that the demon isn't currently trying to stuff in his pocket. Which gets him a strangled, confused noise, and then a squeeze of bony fingers. Aziraphale worries for a moment that he's been terribly forward, there's no Armageddon to excuse such spontaneous intimacy. 

But when Crowley does nothing but awkwardly hold his hand for a long moment, glasses pushed firmly over his eyes again, Aziraphale relaxes into his slightly sweaty grip. Before he loops his other hand round Ivy's arm and encourages them both towards the front door.


	2. Communing With Nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like additions to this might sometimes be short chapters, because I have a bunch of stuff I should probably be finishing/editing. But I couldn't leave Ivy alone, and people seemed to enjoy the first part. Sidenote: I would love people to read about the Puya chilensis, which is a real plant that's learning how to kill and eat sheep. Go big or go home plant kingdom.

"- and so obviously I didn't know for certain whether Ivy would even manage to get out of the bud at all, since it has hands and arms, instead of the fanged head and razor sharp claws that the flowers have when they come out in Hell," Crowley explains, to Aziraphale's fascinated nod. "I mean they literally rip their way out, once they're fully grown, and the buds are dense and fibrous, usually already wrapped up pretty tightly in their tangled vines, which are crammed full of blood at that point. Ivy's basic strength was still a question, since most of mine comes from the fact that I'm a demon inhabiting this corporation, not from the corporation itself. I wasn't sure if that would force the flowers to take on more actual plant characteristics to solve the problem, or weaken the bud somehow, or improve the strength of the flower with extra nutrients. Worst case scenario it would have accepted the weakness and probably died without blooming, which is always a possibility when you graft two different species together."

"You put so much thought into this, it's fascinating," Aziraphale tells him, which pulls yet another surprised smile out of the demon, who's been carefully explaining how he'd grown Ivy for the last hour, with the sort of enthusiasm that Aziraphale had never known how much he'd needed to see in him. He can't remember the last time he'd seen Crowley so animated, so eager to show off something he'd done. Oh, not a temptation, or a mission for Hell, but something he'd made with his own hands, with creativity, skill and determination.

"Well, y'know, no one had ever done it before, no imagination in any of them downstairs. But I was certain it was possible. The Puya chilensis and Hell's Razor had the same sort of killer instinct, and ability to think creatively. It was all going so well, and I didn't want to fall at the last bloody hurdle. So I left a few incisions in the bud that Ivy was growing in, not enough to breach the seal, just so that there'd be weak spots to push against. Then I checked every day to see if it was trying to flower yet. I didn't know how much control it would have over its limbs, or how many limbs there'd even be, not for certain."

"Oh, that's so very clever of you." Aziraphale's only now starting to realise how complicated it all was, how astonishing Ivy's existence as a new species is. "And clearly he managed it perfectly well, since I found him wandering around touching things. I have to say, he seemed quite taken with some of your other lovely plants." 

Crowley tries very hard to look like he's not preening at the compliment.

"M'not surprised, they're almost all as fine a specimens as he is - I mean it is." Crowley makes a grumbling noise of annoyance, as if Aziraphale's insistence on giving Ivy a pronoun is catching somehow. But Aziraphale can't help but be pleased at how quickly the flower has charmed them both. "And you're not to tell any of them that I said that, I don't want them thinking I've gone soft."

"Oh, of course not," Aziraphale agrees easily. It's more difficult to hide his smile, so he focuses his attention on his ice cream instead. He's on his third, but it's taking him longer to eat them than normal. He keeps having to stop to ask questions, or interject with a comment. Or to convince Ivy to put his hat back on. It's not that Ivy doesn't like the hat, he likes it a lot. They'd discovered very quickly that the things Ivy likes he feels compelled to squeeze. Crowley had explained that the hell plant part of him was comprised mostly of vines, and if it found something it liked, or wanted to investigate further, it would wrap them around whatever it was, and drag it in close. So the excited squeezing was probably instinctive.

Ivy's currently standing on the bank, staring into the pond, gently shaking his sunglasses, and watching leaves drift on the surface of the water. Aziraphale likes to think he's appreciating the fresh air. Every so often a bee will lazily drift by and bash into his face, then amble around his nose for a while, in a confused sort of way, before taking off again. Ivy seems to be enjoying it, if the way he keeps hopefully tipping his head in their direction is any indication. 

It really is a beautiful day, and Aziraphale can't remember the last time Crowley was so lively, so full of gestures and enthusiasm, body pulled out of its usual slump and into something approaching a friendly, companionable lean next to him. Much closer than they'd have dared before Armageddon. It's so nice to listen to Crowley talk about something he loves for a change, something he has a wealth of knowledge and experience with. If only Aziraphale had known how lovely this would be, he'd have asked after Crowley's interests all the time. He should have paid more attention, he has no one to blame but himself.

They'd both decided that taking a hybrid demonic flower into a restaurant was perhaps a bit much, for his first trip out, when he was still so new. Ivy still wobbles a little when he walks, refuses to keep his shoes on, and is prone to touching things without asking first. Aziraphale isn't entirely sure whether he's capable of words yet. Hums and barking noises of surprise seem to be the extent of his vocabulary so far - which had provoked a few rather rude comments from members of the public. But Crowley had come to Ivy's defence before Aziraphale could make his own strong feelings on the matter known. There's no telling if he'll acquire more vocabulary later though. Aziraphale can't help but feel that being grown into a basically human corporation may have left Ivy's intelligence levels rather more than the 'rudimentary' that Crowley keeps insisting they are. 

But, either way, Aziraphale still feels as if Ivy deserves the chance to grow, to try new things and have new experiences. So he'd packed a bag with a variety of meat-based snacks - which, if he was being brutally honest, he may have dipped into already. But, in his defence, the pork pies had been both delicious, and possibly contained too much pastry to satisfy a carnivorous plant. Ivy hasn't eaten any of it yet. Though Aziraphale had offered him a selection of titbits, a few prawns, some ham, a boiled egg, a cracker full of pate. He'd even demonstrated that it was food as best as he could, to Crowley's obvious amusement. But Ivy, once he'd clearly worked out that it was something to be consumed, had seemed more interested in feeding it to Aziraphale. Which he'd good-naturedly submitted to, in the hope that it would encourage Ivy to join in.

Crowley had, for some reason, chosen that moment to loudly demand they get ice cream, and had sent Ivy over to the pond, to investigate the flowers. He'd been almost unbearably grumpy while eating his own ice lolly, until Aziraphale had asked him to explain how Ivy was made.

Speaking of Ivy - the flower is now leaning over the pond at a rather frightening angle, possibly to see his own reflection more clearly. The brim of his hat is already an inch in the water.

"Ivy, Ivy do be careful, you don't want to fall in - " The words do nothing, he's still listing alarming, worryingly so for a being who only learned balance this morning.

"I'll get him." Crowley pushes himself off the bench and slinks forward, catches Ivy before he tumbles into the water, then carefully uses both hands to lever him upright again, fixes his hat so the front is no longer soggy. There's a wide smile from under the brim, and Ivy stays still long enough for Crowley to put the glasses back on him as well. Crowley's speaking rather intently to him, but Aziraphale can't hear what he's saying. Whatever it is, Ivy is quite obviously too distracted by the meandering flight path of a bee to pay attention. Eventually the demon throws up his hands, and carefully shuffles Ivy back towards the flowers, rather than the perilous edge of the water. Heaven knows what would happen if he ended up submerged. Aziraphale isn't sure whether plants need to breathe or not. How much of his corporation is plant matter and how much is flesh and blood? Crowley will know, he should ask him.

Crowley grumbles his way back to the bench, hands shoved in his pockets.

"You'd think a carnivorous plant would have better self-preservation skills," he complains, before sprawling next to Aziraphale once more - an inch and a half closer than before, barely enough to notice. Aziraphale notices all the same.

"I suppose it's all very new to him," he reminds the demon. "He's the only one of his kind, I don't suppose we can say for sure what's normal for him yet."

"It's a good job he's basically indestructible," Crowley says with a laugh.

Aziraphale frowns. "You said that before, do you mean he's impervious to certain types of damage?"

"No, he's not impervious, impervious would be bloody terrifying. His body can be hurt about as easily as our own corporations, but Hell's Razor - well it's always getting ripped into by hellhounds, so it's developed amazing regenerative properties in Hell's atmosphere, mostly from its constant supply of fresh blood."

"Oh." Aziraphale's not sure at all how he feels about the 'constant supply of fresh blood,' portion of that. But he trusts Crowley enough not to poke at it just yet. "But surely that doesn't help him now he's on earth?"

"Ah, that's where I had to get creative, since Ivy isn't going to be exposed to any of that - well probably not at any rate, hopefully not. I left the skylight in the atrium uncovered while he was growing, taught him how to photosynthesise like the plants on earth." Crowley looks particularly proud of that fact, so Aziraphale assumes it was fiendishly difficult.

"Oh, that's marvellous."

Crowley nods, hands working their way out of his pockets.

"So if I was to, y'know, take cuttings -"

"Crowley."

"He'd grow whatever I took straight back," Crowley says quickly, as if trying to get it all out before Aziraphale can object again. "He probably wouldn't even mind -"

" _Crowley_."

Crowley folds his arms and slumps against the back of the bench, sighs heavily.

"Honestly, I don't know how you can think about - about carving bits off of him." Aziraphale finds himself more than a little disappointed by the fact that Crowley is still so set upon it. "When he's proven that he's so much more than just a plant. Imagine how much more he'd be capable of, if given the opportunity to grow. Who knows what he could eventually accomplish if he was allowed to come outside, be among people, learn to - to -" Aziraphale flounders for something appropriate.

"Eat a duck?" Crowley suggests.

"Yes - no, I'm sorry, what?"

Crowley's mouth is a crooked line beneath his glasses. He tips his head back towards the pond.

"No, he's literally eating a duck."

Aziraphale's head swivels immediately towards the water. Where Ivy is indeed crouched on the bank, both long hands wrapped round a mass of panicked twitching feathers and kicking duck legs, while he desperately tries to cram the rest of it into his mouth.

"Ivy, _Ivy_ , good Heavens, no, put it down -"

-

" _Giant carnivorous plant_ ," Crowley enunciates carefully, from his position behind the wheel of the Bentley. "I believe I mentioned that a time or two."

Yes, so he did, but Aziraphale thinks the amusement is entirely unnecessary.

"That small child was inconsolable," he says instead. Which, he's aware is not exactly Crowley's fault, but he hadn't exactly helped the situation either. Even if Aziraphale does accept that there are inherent difficulties involved in convincing a demonic plant to regurgitate half a duck. "Inconsolable."

Crowley makes a sound which is neither apology nor agreement. 

"Until you made sure that his entire family saw nothing at all out of the ordinary, and convinced them that they'd all, in fact, had a lovely day out. The best day out, they'll probably be there again tomorrow. No harm done, eh? S'what miracles are for."

"That's not really the point, I feel," Aziraphale says firmly. 

"Of course it is," Crowley insists. "And besides, it's not like we told him he wasn't allowed to eat a duck." Crowley seems to think he's making an excellent point, or possibly providing reassurance. But Aziraphale knows perfectly well when the demon is still finding something terribly amusing. As if Aziraphale is being a - a stick in the mud, or something equally boring and lacking in fun. "We can't really blame him."

Aziraphale turns in his seat, towards their plant-based charge. Ivy seems comfortable enough in the back seat, skinny legs pulled up underneath him. He doesn't seem to be having trouble keeping his balance when Crowley turns a corner unexpectedly. His sweater is still spotted with green and grey feathers. He's still smiling his too-wide, curious smile, the picture of plant-based innocence. Perhaps a few simple rules should be established early?

"Ivy, you're not allowed to eat the ducks," Aziraphale explains, slowly, and carefully. "People tend to frown on that sort of thing."

"Not unless they attack you first," Crowley offers from the driver's seat. Then mutters something about how the ducks are all a bunch of bastards anyway, and probably deserved it.

"Should we really be teaching him that he's allowed to eat anything that attacks him?" Aziraphale says. That seems like the sort of thing that might come back to haunt them.

"Aziraphale, I don't think we're teaching him anything. I think we're just making mouth sounds at a giant plant, and he's enjoying the attention."

Before Aziraphale can offer a reply to that, Ivy is gently squeezing his arm, fingers tugging and gripping, that curious humming noise purring up out of his throat.

"Yes, Ivy, dear?"

The flower offers Aziraphale a long, green feather, which he has carefully held between a thumb and two fingers. He must have found it on his jumper, and he seems to want Aziraphale to have it.

"Oh, thank you, Ivy, it's a very lovely gift."

Crowley makes a scoffing noise. "It's not a gift, angel, it's a trophy. He's giving you a trophy from his first kill. You should be flattered, that's a big deal. Tell him he did good."

Aziraphale scowls at him.

"The duck is perfectly fine," he reminds him. "It won't remember a thing."

Crowley raises an eyebrow at him in the mirror, and makes another noise, which Aziraphale chooses not to acknowledge.

"Anyway, today was a success overall, wasn't it? You wanted him to come out and experience the world, learn stuff, and I'm pretty sure Ivy enjoyed himself. He saw the pond, nearly fell in the pond, managed not to pollinate anything, met some bees, ate a duck -"

Aziraphale resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

"Can we not talk about the duck any more, please."

Crowley's expression says that he would very much like to keep talking about the duck. But he seems to relent in the face of Aziraphale's frustrated exhaustion with the whole topic. It takes Aziraphale a long moment to realise that the Bentley has stopped, that they are, in fact, in front of the bookshop. He honestly can't remember the last time they'd gone on a journey without him giving some sort of pointed comment on Crowley's driving. He's uncertain whether it's because Crowley had decided to drive more sensibly with Ivy in the car, whether Aziraphale himself was sufficiently distracted not to notice. Or whether he's simply getting used to the sheer insanity of Crowley's driving.

Still, either way, he can't help the disappointment at their destination.

"Oh."

Crowley seems to immediately realise the reason for his surprised noise and crestfallen expression. 

"I thought you'd want to get back to the shop. Did you want to - did you want to come back to the flat with me, with us?" There's an arch of eyebrow over the top of the sunglasses that feels almost hopeful.

Aziraphale is rather surprised by how much he wants to say yes. But, of course, it would be terribly rude to impose himself upon them both further, especially when Ivy has just bloomed. Crowley probably has lots to do to get him settled in, measurements to take, soil mixtures to consider, and so forth. Aziraphale has at least a dozen books on botany and plant care, there's really no excuse for him never having done more than skim them. Perhaps he can find them later this evening and make the effort.

"No, no, you were quite right, I have a considerable amount of new inventory that I should be going through, and I can't monopolise your time."

"Aziraphale, you're not - you're never -" The rest of what Crowley was going to say seems to lodge in his throat. But it's enough to leave Aziraphale smiling, before he climbs out of the car, pushing the door shut behind him, and then leaning back through the window.

"I hope I can see you tomorrow though. You know you're always welcome, Ivy too, of course."

Ivy is currently attempting to crawl through the gap between the seats, to see where Aziraphale has gone. Crowley grunts annoyance but lets him fold into the front seat beside him, briefly leaning out of the way of his flailing elbows. Once he's tucked into the front seat, Ivy promptly slithers sideways and curls his hands around the open window.

"You'll see him tomorrow, stop pining," Crowley tells him. Before hissing irritation and fisting a hand in the back of the flower's sweater, to stop him squirming out through the window.

Aziraphale reaches out, without thinking, and gently pets Ivy's hair. Which he finds to be surprisingly soft, and just the slightest bit silky between his fingers. Ivy settles, and hums quietly at the contact, eyes sliding half-shut.

Crowley mutters something, barely audible over the strained squeak of his hands twisting on the wheel. Before he abruptly makes a strangled sound of impatience. 

" _Ivy_ , let Aziraphale get back to work."

"Yes, yes, and be good for your - " Aziraphale stops, at something of a loss. "For Crowley," he finishes helplessly. 

He steps back, gives a short wave, and then turns and heads up the steps into the bookshop.


	3. Plant Care

Crowley's somewhere in the middle of a dream, a good one for a change, which has become something of a rarity since Aziraphale's bookshop went up in flames. Madame Ashtoreth has just been invited to move in with the Golden Girls, and she's already developed something of an interest in the suspiciously Aziraphale-shaped librarian who lives across the street - when there's a series of loud, incriminating thuds from somewhere deeper in the flat.

Crowley pushes himself out of the pillows, suddenly far more awake than he really needs to be at - he checks his watch - four in the morning.

Before the apocalypse, noises in the flat would have had him up out of the bed immediately, trying to find the closest heavy object with one hand, while readying something in the way of a curse with the other. He'd had to retrain his panic responses a bit, once Aziraphale started visiting. Which had been no great hardship, because _Aziraphale had started visiting_ , and anything he needed to do to keep that happening was fine by him. But now he has not only a possible angel to contend with upon waking, but a new houseplant, one that can't seem to resist getting into trouble while Crowley's trying to sleep. He's not used to his plants getting up to things. They've always stayed in their bloody pots before. Even when they're conspiring behind his back it's not like they can get up and walk around. Not like his demonic hybrid flower could - and really he only has himself to blame, he's the one who decided it needed legs. 

A quick stretch of his demonic senses reassures him there's no one in the flat but him and Ivy.

"Ivy?" he calls from the bed. Crowley's fairly sure the plant knows his name, knows that he's supposed to respond to the shape and the vibration of it. He's supposed to come when he's bloody called. Isn't that what pets do?

But there's no reply, and no pad of bare feet - Ivy can't keep shoes on for ten seconds, Aziraphale had said something about them 'stifling his root system,' which suggested he'd actually been listening to Crowley's long explanations and pointed comments. That the angel hadn't been humouring him when he'd insisted that he was interested, and wanted to help, in any way he could, with his 'botanical endeavours.' Which - Crowley has no idea what prompted the angel to suddenly take so much of an interest, but he's trying to enjoy it for as long as it lasts. For as long as he gets to watch the angel be fascinated and enthusiastic about something that gives Crowley purpose, something he's good at. He'd never thought he'd get to share it with Aziraphale, show him things he'd grown, things that he'd made from nothing and named himself.

There's a quiet rustle, and then another thud, which Crowley decides sounds too suspicious to ignore. He pulls himself irritably out of bed, doesn't even bother changing out of his pyjamas. He sways his way out of the bedroom, and then stomps through the study, before shoving the door of the atrium open.

Ivy is in the atrium.

Ivy is also sitting in the middle of an absolute disaster.

He's pulled two bags of potting soil out of the cupboard, and emptied them completely across the floor, the plastic outer bags torn to shreds and tossed aside. He's apparently been sharing the soil out among Crowley's plants. Every pot is overflowing with it, leaves and stems overloaded and sagging under dark clumps and flecks. It's all up Ivy's arms, smeared across his face, scattered deep into the red drift of his hair. His long, bare feet are half-buried in a large, wet mound of it. 

" _Ivy_ ," Crowley grates out. 

Because, can he not leave the plant alone for four hours to get some sleep without him creating absolute chaos?

Ivy lifts his surprised, dreamy face to him. The smile that widens in it when he sees Crowley is speckled with soil and bits of dead leaf. There's also a wet, muddy handprint on his jumper. He pats at the dirt concealing his feet, as if to demonstrate what a good job he's done. Look at his good job, the pat says. 

"Ivy, what are you doing?" It's obvious really though, isn't it, if you think like a plant. The idiot creature has been trying to pot himself for the night, just like the rest. "Ivy, you can't bed yourself down, you don't need -" Crowley can feel his teeth grinding and forces his jaw to relax. "Your main body is over there." He points aggressively to the tangle of leaves and vines against the far wall. "We tested this yesterday, remember. You're somewhere between a flower and seed pod, you can't absorb nutrients from the soil on your own. You have to do it through the main body -" Crowley stops and hisses out a breath. "Why am I even bothering to explain this to you, you're a bloody flower, you don't understand a word I'm saying."

He angrily kicks aside the remains of the plastic bags that the soil came in. 

"Do I need to put child locks on my bloody cabinets? Because I will, if I have to." He can hear a hiss building at the back of his throat. Something that wants to snap and bite down, until the threat stops moving.

Ivy pats the mound of dirt he's made again, but in a slightly less enthusiastic way. Crowley gets the impression that he's upset him, that he might, in fact, have been carefully constructing his mound for a while now. That he'd thought he was helping.

No.

No. Aziraphale doing that was bad enough. No anthropomorphising the blessed plants. _Ivy is not a person_ , Crowley tells himself furiously. No matter what Aziraphale seems to think. No matter how attached the angel insists on getting, with the _touching,_ and the _pet names,_ and the _indulgence_. No matter what he looks like, he's just a hybrid bloody plant. And if any other plant had the audacity to make this much of a mess they'd know exactly what to expect. Ivy has to learn his place, he has to learn that this is not the way they do things here -

Crowley watches Ivy's toes very slowly work their way out of the mound, wriggling like grubs. He hums at them delightedly as they appear.

Any of the others would go straight in the bloody garbage disposal if they'd even dared to think they could get away with this. At the very least, if they were young and didn't know the ropes yet, or if Crowley wanted to send a more obvious message, they'd get the shears -

There's a smudged, messy handprint on the jumper Aziraphale had dressed Ivy in, the long muddy fingers spread apart, a tiny leaf stuck to the palm. It looks like some child's terrible artwork.

The atrium is a _fucking mess_ , Crowley has a right to be angry, and it would serve Ivy right if he hauled him out of this disaster and put the fear of - the fear of -

Ivy slowly pulls together a handful of dirt and starts slowly and carefully putting it into one of the large containers that Crowley uses to carry cuttings. It's fairly obvious that he's attempting to tidy up.

Oh for fuck's sake. This is all Aziraphale's fault. The angel is too much of a bad - a good - some sort of bloody influence on him. Because it never used to be this hard to _discipline his fucking plants_.

-

Bless it.

Crowley sighs. He forces himself to very slowly, and reluctantly, unclench his teeth, and then he stiffly offers a hand down, jerks his fingers twice.

"Right, come on, get up. This morning, you're going to learn what a shower is."

They leave a trail of dirt and muddy footprints through Crowley's pristine flat. Ivy's never been in the bathroom. He's never had a reason to, he doesn't have a digestive system. He's comprised mostly of plant matter after all. Though he does seem to make more use of oxygen than is normal for a plant. Finding his own unique ways around the massive energy consumption needs of his larger body, when the sun isn't available. Crowley could technically have fed his root system blood. But, to be honest, that seemed like a lot of mess and a lot of bother. Not to mention the difficulties involved in trying to ethically source vast quantities of blood. Bit too obviously demonic for his tastes.

He nudges Ivy into the shower and strips his jumper from him. Which pulls a quietly mournful noise from him, fingers briefly trying to cling to the wool.

"No showering in our clothes," Crowley snaps, tossing it behind him and going to work on Ivy's jeans. "It's your own fault it's fit for nothing but the rubbish now. And of course the angel gave you underwear, couldn't have you being an indecent plant now, could we." He strips both jeans and pants down Ivy's legs and throws them back over his head too. The Puya chilensis was a hermaphrodite, Hell's Razor had a female base plant with male flowers. Crowley had been curious about which parent species would express itself. Ivy seems to be keeping his options open. Crowley reminds himself to note it down in the plant file he's keeping on him, before he positions him inside the shower and flicks the cold tap on.

At the sudden torrent of water, Ivy's mouth drops open, and he makes a noise that's startled and wavering - and then he's reaching up for the shower head, hands flailing through the water, mouth opening and closing on a noise that seems somehow thrilled and demanding in equal measure.

Crowley honestly shouldn't be surprised.

Muddy water runs in streams down Ivy's body, which he seems to be trying to position so that spray hits every part of him at once. His failure to manage it doesn't seem to bother him. He's just as flexible as Crowley, though he seems to be accomplishing it by being a plant, rather than being a snake, joints bending in ways they shouldn't. It still involves a ridiculous amount of excited twisting, two dented bottles of expensive toiletries, a cracked tile, three spontaneous repositionings of the shower head, and one delighted tug on Crowley's pyjamas.

"I suppose it's too much to ask that you make some attempt to clean yourself?" Crowley says, looking in disgust at the sodden twist of silk at abdomen level. "You don't even need this much water," he adds. "You're the cross-breed of a flowering Hell vine and an arid desert plant. You're going to get waterlogged." It will serve him right if he gets waterlogged.

Ivy's not listening to him, because of course he's not. He's watching his muddy hands move through the spray, fingers spread wide and streaming water. His toes are curling and clenching on the floor, as if he's trying to lock himself to the tiles. Every so often his arms will flap upwards, as if he thinks he can encourage more water down.

Crowley sighs and turns on the side jets.

Ivy gives a little whoop of surprise when water hits him from behind as well. He quickly finds that his hands can't cover every source of water and seems overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of it, the humming's now loud enough to bounce off of the walls. Eventually he simply tilts his head back, and stares up into the spray with his arms raised. Crowley watches water run in his eyes, and mouth - it doesn't seem to bother him.

Crowley gives him a few minutes to enjoy the moment - until it occurs to him that he's effectively indulging a plant, and hates himself a little for it. Ivy's more than calm enough to be cleaned now, so Crowley turns him round and squeezes shampoo into his hair and then rubs it in with a mutter of annoyance, trying to shake out whatever dirt has stubbornly clung to him. Ivy's noise goes low and curious, he tries to both lift his hands to touch, and tips his head back, to see what Crowley's doing.

"No, stay still," Crowley says instinctively. Ivy obediently stops moving, puts his arms down, and Crowley tells himself fiercely that he's not doing as he's told, he's just reacting to the sound of his voice. 

Soaping the flower is harder. He wants to see everything, wants to touch everything. It's like wrangling a wet, slippery, six foot toddler, and it doesn't help that the sight of watery soil going down the drain seems to upset him. Bending to try and follow the grains and spatters of it with his fingers.

"No, it's not coming back. You're the one who wasted it," Crowley tells him, tugging his fingers away from the drain. Then he gives a short noise of annoyance when Ivy half soaks his arm trying to squeeze the soap through his fingers. "No, stop touching the soap, stop it, give me your arm."

Ivy seems to notice that Crowley has been carefully avoiding getting too far into the spray. He mouths a noise and collects water in his hand, before carefully nudging it in Crowley's direction, as if he's determined to water him too. Which surprises an unexpected laugh out of him.

"No, Ivy, I don't need watering." Crowley can feel himself trying to smile, some stupid, crooked thing growing on his face. He forces it away, tells himself sharply that exceptionally well-grown plants do not get indulged. Not even if they have rudimentary intelligence, not even if they are occasionally amusing to watch. Ivy is a specialised botanical masterpiece, designed and grown for the purpose of home security, and possible demonic defence. He's not a - he's not whatever Aziraphale thinks he is - or wants him to be. Which is - Crowley doesn't fucking know, something that Crowley isn't, that's obvious enough, that's all he knows for sure.

"Ok, enough showering," Crowley bites out, suddenly in no mood to be entertained by Ivy's antics. He leans sideways and turns the shower off entirely, more aggressively than he means to.

Ivy reacts immediately to the flow of water being removed, with a bark of complaint, then a louder bark when Crowley does nothing.

"Good plants get three hundred and sixty degree water therapy for twenty minutes," Crowley tells him. "You're not a good plant, you made a mess. You had your four minutes to stop looking like a bog witch, now get out." He gestures to the floor next to him. 

Instead of obediently traipsing out, Ivy cups his empty hands and holds them under the shower head hopefully. His hair is plastered to his head and he's still pouring rivulets of water, but that's clearly not good enough for him.

Crowley shakes his head at Ivy's stupidly mournful expression. Which looks real enough that he had to have copied it from somewhere.

"No, I'm not a soft touch like the angel, that won't work on me, come on, get out."

Ivy blinks, then carefully shuffles forward and out, running water on the dark grey, tiled floor. Crowley snatches a black towel off the rail, and then throws it over Ivy's head, ignoring his startled noise. Before reaching up and vigorously rubbing his hair dry.

"I don't know what Aziraphale sees in you, I really don't." Crowley suspects the angel is just a soft touch for things which look helpless. Things that can't survive on their own. Or maybe he just likes a version of Crowley who doesn't snarl, and snap, and scowl, who doesn't make fun of him and drink all his good whisky. A version of him that's soft enough to keep close, put his hands on, call lovely and clever and _special_.

The flower is making breathy little chuffing sounds every time his head rocks, Crowley's fairly certain they're either disgruntled or confused noises. He refuses to feel guilty about them. Six foot tall plants that haven't even spent four days alive yet don't get to make the rules. They don't get to decide what's right for them, or what they're supposed to do. They don't get to choose whether Crowley takes cuttings, or disciplines them, or sets them to the purpose they were made for. They don't get to -

It's not until the towel flips back that Crowley gets a good look at Ivy's face, which is scrunched in absolute delight as Crowley aggressively dries his hair.

They're not disgruntled noises. Ivy's laughing.

_Ivy's laughing._

Crowley's mouth tugs and twists, tries to jerk out of its sour expression in a way that's almost painful. It's more work to hold his face in a frown than to just let the smile happen. He fights it anyway, because no one teaches you to hide your weaknesses quite like Hell.

"Doesn't take much to amuse you, does it?" He gives an irritated sigh, and finger-combs Ivy's hair into some sort of order, only to watch it flop back over his forehead. The redness of it looks impossibly dark where it's still wet. Ivy stares at him, quiet humming noises escaping, as if he's curious to know what comes next. 

Ivy's face is an exact copy of Crowley's own, but it's nothing like looking in a mirror. Crowley has never looked like this, not even at the beginning, not even when everything was new to him, when he didn't know any better. He's never been so open to the whole world being fascinating and strange and exciting. Crowley's face has never trusted anything the way Ivy does. He's never done as he was told, never believed without question that someone else knew what was best for him. He's never looked at anyone to keep him safe.

But Crowley has been seeing that face, over and over, for thousands of years. 

Something inside him cracks at the realisation, understanding coming suddenly and painfully. Aziraphale had known immediately, and Crowley had missed it, or he hadn't wanted to see it. Ivy isn't just a plant. Ivy's something that's never existed before, something Crowley never meant to grow. He's new and unique and _impossible_ \- and Crowley very nearly took a pair of shears to him. 

Crowley nearly mutilated him for parts. What sort of a - what does that make him?

He must have been staring without moving for too long, because Ivy's long hands are suddenly around his upper arms, leaving ruinous wet patches on the silk of his pyjamas, the flower's fingers are squeezing, in a slow, gentle rhythm, while that long, humming purr rolls in his throat. 

"I'm fine, stop fussing," Crowley tells him. Without thinking about how easy it is to see, now he's noticed it. How much he missed because he refused to see it. Because he was too much of an angry, jealous demon. Because he was too proud - _liar, too afraid_ \- to question it.

Crowley dries the rest of Ivy's long, weirdly familiar body, more carefully now, more gently. Though it's made more complicated by the fact that Ivy decides he likes the towel halfway through, and wants to squeeze it. Crowley lets him keep the first one. He can make as many towels as he needs. Ivy lets him lift and dry his vulnerable feet, wriggling his toes in Crowley's grip, like he has no reason to be afraid.

Why would he be afraid of Crowley, he made him after all.

Afterwards, because he's genuinely curious, he gives Ivy a choice of two jumpers, a blue one and a red one. Ivy squeezes them both, then tugs the red one close with a hum of approval. Crowley snaps him into it, with some much darker jeans than he suspects Aziraphale would have given him. Pale colours are not flattering on him, no matter what the angel thinks. They're not black though, not black, Ivy deserves to - Ivy isn't like him.

Once he's dressed, Ivy holds a hand out, the way he does for Aziraphale. When the angel wants to guide him along, show him something interesting, make sure he doesn't wander too far. Crowley's chest feels uncomfortably small all of a sudden, insides straining painfully against his ribs. He slips his own hand into Ivy's cool one, gives it a tug.

"Alright, come on, petal. I'll defrost you something for breakfast. If you promise not to tell the angel that our freezer is full of dead animals."


	4. Growing Things

Aziraphale opens at nine, because that's what bookshops do. Opening hours are something of a necessity for him, if he wants to consider himself a bookshop, rather than, say, a book museum. Which doesn't quite have the same ring to it. Though he is, of course, the owner and thus gets to choose when those hours are, or whether they have to be the same from one week to the next.

He's not expecting Crowley until at least lunchtime, and has resigned himself to the possibility of at least a few customers invading the place, and putting their dubious fingers on things until then. So he can't help the expression of pleased surprise when the door opens at ten to admit a very familiar demonic signature, and then a second, rather weaker but still recognisable one. He sets the large pile of books he'd been carrying down, and heads into the shop proper to greet them.

"Crowley, you're unexpectedly early today." He doesn't bother to hide his happiness at the fact. This is what friendships are for, isn't it? The surprise of an unexpected visit, the pleasure of each other's company. The joy at the weight of familiarity and camaraderie easing into something cautiously affectionate. 

Crowley is looking rather dashing today, in a black jacket that seems to be made entirely of sharp angles and insouciance, and jeans that Aziraphale refuses to believe have ever actually made the journey up his legs. The demon grunts something which may or may not be willing to offer an explanation for his early presence.

Aziraphale switches his attention to the figure beside Crowley, for whom the word 'identical' is becoming rather more of a stretch the more time he spends with him.

"Hello, Ivy, darling."

Ivy's had a change of wardrobe as well. He's wearing a soft-looking, long-sleeved shirt in an unexpectedly vibrant shade of red, which manages, somehow, to not clash horribly with his hair, and bright green denim trousers, held up by a belt decorated with rather vivid orange flowers. His sunglasses have purple rims. Hideous as it is, Aziraphale can't help but be warmed by the whole awful outfit, because it's rather glaringly obvious that Crowley let Ivy dress himself today.

He gives a bark of greeting, humming excitably in a way that only tapers off when Crowley nudges him inside with a grumbling complaint that he's 'blocking the door.' Ivy obediently moves out of the way, being very careful with the small, white, cake box he's holding between both hands.

"Don't squeeze it," Crowley tells him firmly. In a tone of voice that suggests it's a reminder he may have had to give him several times on the journey here.

Ivy quickly looks at his hands, as if to check whether they're squeezing. 

Crowley lifts a hand and waves him forward. "Right, go on then, give it the angel."

Ivy pads over to Aziraphale, and then very carefully stretches his hands out towards him. 

"Ivy may have squeezed the box a bit," Crowley says, apologetically. "I let him hold it in the car, and then when we got out he wanted to carry it. He got excited when I told him it was for you."

The box is indeed just a tiny bit squashed at the sides, cardboard folding in and torn a little. But the smell escaping from the slightly dented corners is absolutely divine. Aziraphale takes it, watches with a smile as Ivy waves his empty hands, as if to demonstrate that the box reached its destination in one piece. Or possibly to check that he's not still attached to it.

"Thank you, Ivy, it smells lovely."

"I had some things to do early," Crowley explains, hands working their way into his indecently tight pockets, and utterly ruining his attempt to give a casual shrug. "So we stopped off at the bakery that makes the carrot cake you like."

Aziraphale can't help the the way that makes him smile, because of course they did. Crowley has always been so thoughtful, he always notices when Aziraphale likes something, and he never forgets. He opens the slightly dented box and finds not one but _three_ pieces of carrot cake. Which have all miraculously escaped being squeezed. In fact they look wonderfully moist and delicious. The frosting thick and sprinkled with spices.

"Oh, you shouldn't have. They look very tempting." Which is nothing but the truth. "That was very kind of you both."

Crowley winces.

"Aziraphale, let him have something in the way of devious intentions, he may be a flower but he's still demonic. He's already got the most atrocious fashion sense the world has ever known." He jerks his head to where Ivy currently has both hands on a globe, and is turning it curiously back and forth. 

"I think he looks lovely," Aziraphale tells him, because he feels as if at least one of them should be supportive. It's not quite a lie, Ivy's unique approach to colour coordination is growing on him. 

Crowley grunts blatant disbelief.

"Though I see you're still having trouble convincing him to keep his shoes on?" Aziraphale notices. Because Ivy is only wearing one sandal, a delicate thing with thin, silver straps. The other foot is entirely bare, long toes twitching and tapping on his floorboards.

"It's in the Bentley somewhere," Crowley complains. "Probably under the seat. But I'm making some progress, as long as he can see his toes he doesn't fuss as much."

"What's that thing they say, about children not being able to see things." Aziraphale waves, trying to get the term to come to him. His brain rarely forgets things, but it does sometimes misplace them for a while. The filing system could do with a bit of a clean-up. Though in his defence 6000 years is a long time to accumulate information, a vast quantity of it of dubious usefulness. "Object permanence, that's it."

Crowley looks at him sideways, eye just visible behind his glasses, though he makes no comment on the _about children_ , where Aziraphale had fully expected him to. He'd expected him to protest that rather strongly, and it genuinely surprises him when he doesn't.

"I'm pretty sure he knows his feet still exist, even when they're in shoes."

Aziraphale frowns. "Perhaps it's a sensory thing then? It is his root system after all. Perhaps he can feel things through his feet, and forcing him to wear shoes is like - I don't know - someone blindfolding you and then expecting you to follow them around. The first thing you'd do, instinctively, is pull the blindfold off."

Crowley looks like he's about to protest, then shuts his mouth, tips his head back and forth. Aziraphale can see him seriously considering the thought.

"It's a thought, I suppose, I'll run a few tests later."

Aziraphale can't help the way his expression becomes something suddenly far more anxious.

"You won't -"

Crowley flinches, rather obviously, genuine hurt crossing his face, which leaves Aziraphale wondering what exactly had happened since the last time he'd seen Crowley and Ivy. 

"No, Aziraphale, I won't cut anything off of him. I'm not a _monster_." He tugs his glasses off and shoves them in his pocket, then he reaches over and removes Ivy's a little more gently, before tucking them away with his own.

Ivy waves a hand towards Crowley's jacket, noise breaking out of his throat like a hiccup.

"No, not until you can learn not to break them by squeezing too hard," Crowley tells him, before tucking Ivy's hand back down by his side, where it twitches and scratches against the denim in fidgety protest.

"Well, since you're here early, I think I'll close up for a bit and make some tea. Something to go with the delicious cake you were nice enough to bring. Do you think Ivy would like tea?" Aziraphale's not entirely sure if Ivy consumes liquids. To date he's only seen him trying to put a duck in his mouth. Which he hopes isn't indicative of his diet in general. Crowley barely feeds himself sensibly, as it is. 

"I think you'll have to convince him to drink it, rather than excitably splash it all over himself." 

Aziraphale assumes that's a joke, until he gets a good look at Crowley's expression.

"Perhaps we could try half a cup, see how he does?"

Crowley grunts reluctant agreement.

"No sugar though," he adds. "I'm still working out if he processes glucose via photosynthesis, or from what he consumes."

Aziraphale isn't entirely sure if he understands that, but he bows to Crowley's knowledge of Ivy's abilities.

Crowley drops himself on the sofa, and then carefully folds Ivy into a seated position next to him. Which the flower clearly has some difficulty with, as if his body doesn't quite understand right angles yet, but he's proven to be very good at following directions. Which doesn't strike Aziraphale as something that comes naturally to either a plant or a demon. Though he supposes it shouldn't be too surprising. Ivy's still discovering what he is, after all.

He can hear the sounds of them interacting while he steps into the small kitchen area to make tea. Mostly Crowley's low, rough tones, and Ivy's occasional loud noises of either acknowledgement or interest. When he rejoins them both, Ivy has pulled his bare foot up onto the sofa and is squeezing his own toes, and Crowley has sprawled into a position that looks unconducive to tea drinking. But Aziraphale has been proven wrong before.

He sets Crowley's tall mug on the small table next to him, and his own down briefly with it, so he can bend into the sofa and gently offer the mug he'd half-filled to Ivy. There's a curious fluttering motion of Ivy's hands, as if to confirm he's allowed to take it.

"Yes, it's for you, go on, petal," Crowley says quietly. Aziraphale can't help the brief moment of surprise at the gently offered pet name, which seems to be new, but is given easily enough. He tries his best not to react to it, to pretend he hadn't heard. It's always best to let Crowley test his moments of vulnerability without acknowledging them. Though Aziraphale's smile for Ivy is significantly wider than before.

Ivy slowly lifts his hands, and Aziraphale carefully settles the half filled cup in them both, closing Ivy's cold fingers around it, and then making sure he's holding it, before slowly releasing them. Ivy gives a surprised hum at the warmth, leaning slightly in Aziraphale's direction. He seems happy.

"There we go," Aziraphale tells him. He's rather pleased, this feels like progress.

Crowley shakes his head, expression amused. 

"I'm absolutely certain that he has no idea what to do with it," he points out.

"Oh, of course." Aziraphale demonstrates, by lifting his own mug, and then taking a slow drink from it, to show Ivy how it's done.

Ivy attempts to copy him, but doesn't seem to know how to cope with a sudden liquid diet, almost all of it comes back out again, not even close to as neatly as it went in. Ivy certainly seems surprised at the sudden, excessive, warm wetness of his shirt and hands.

"Oh dear, I suppose that was rather running before you could walk, wasn't it?" Aziraphale miracles a handkerchief and cleans Ivy up a little, with a noise of apology and a brief miracle. While Crowley restrains what looks an awful lot like a laugh. "That was my fault entirely. Liquids are rather more unpredictable than solids after all."

"Nothing like watching a copy of yourself fail at basic human tasks." Crowley's expression is amused enough that the complaint loses any of its bite. "Though, yeah, we both should have expected that, shouldn't we? Which, I have to tell you, is saying something, since I watched him stand open-mouthed under a shower less than a week ago."

Aziraphale lifts a hand and takes Ivy's wet mug from him.

"Well, I suppose it was worth a try."

Ivy gives a series of low, fast hiccuping noises, hands fidgeting as Aziraphale settles his mug on the table.

"No." Crowley waves a hand towards it. "Give it back to him, I think he likes it."

"Really?" Aziraphale looks from Crowley back to Ivy.

"That's his upset noise," Crowley says with a sigh and a flick of eyes, as if he'd encountered it often enough to be certain. "He wants to keep it."

Aziraphale gives Ivy back the mug, after wiping his tea-covered fingers. Ivy wraps both hands back around it and squeezes.

"Though I honestly don't know whether he wants to drink what's left, or if he just wants something hot to squeeze. Knowing him, I'm going to go with the squeezing."

Crowley drinks his own tea, as if to prove to the universe at large that he knows how, which Aziraphale can't help but find amusing. Ivy makes no attempt to lift his mug again, he seems content holding it in his lap. Aziraphale suspects that Crowley is right, and it will be promptly abandoned once it gets cold.

Aziraphale tugs the cake box closer and helps himself to a slice. It would be polite, of course, to share them out. But he knows perfectly well that both of them will decline, in their own way. That Crowley bought all three pieces in the understanding that Aziraphale would enjoy every one of them. Fiend.

"How's he been?" Aziraphale asks curiously. "In general."

Crowley frowns, the shape of it pulling at his face unpleasantly for a moment.

"I may have screwed him over a bit, using my own corporation." 

Aziraphale pauses in the act of drinking.

"How so?"

"Well, he's a copy of my basic structure, but my basic structure isn't actually standard human, it's a bodge job of what works best from my snake form and my human form. Including all the bits I've changed over the years to - " Crowley stops, pulling the words back, as if he'd been about to say something he was going to deeply regret. "Well, for reasons I'm not going to get into right now."

Aziraphale decides not to push. The uncomfortable, embarrassing confessions are best saved for when they're both drunk, after all. Less chance that they'd be remembered, and they're much easier to dismiss as fanciful lies and nonsense.

"How does that matter for Ivy?" Aziraphale can't help but be drawn back to his earlier thought, that they were perhaps less identical than he'd first thought. Crowley's body was provided for him originally six thousand years ago, and can be sustained perfectly well through miracles. Where Ivy's was grown for a purpose, he's a hybrid, an adaptation. 

"Ivy can't transform into a snake, but he still has all those cut corners. He has the same eyes, but I don't think he can see in low light at all, and he can't tell by looking whether something's hot, or cold. His jaw doesn't actually hinge, it's why he managed to swallow half a duck before we stopped him. His spine doesn't connect to his pelvis properly, which, it turns out, is only the right shape from the outside. I'm not entirely sure how his arms even attach, his shoulders look exactly like mine but there's some sort of internal structure there that I don't have, as if the plant part of him decided he needed more support there, more fibrous connection." Crowley shrugs, pulling a frustrated face. "Fuck knows why, it's not like he came with a manual." 

Aziraphale watches Ivy gently squeeze his mug, the tips of his fingers making quiet squeaking noises.

"I suppose it's up to us to find out more about him as he grows then," Aziraphale offers. "So we can best anticipate his needs."

Crowley is watching him with a strangely soft expression, but when Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, questioning what exactly it's for - it's just as quickly gone, wiped away with shrug and a twist of mouth.

"Do you think he'll be able to talk?" Aziraphale asks curiously. 

Crowley shakes his head immediately.

"I've checked his mouth, once you hit his throat it's really just vines and plant matter, there's no uvula, no proper upper palate, and the tongue doesn't go farther than the back teeth. A few of the vines in his neck are hollow, and probably process oxygen, though they're small and thin, so I think it's a backup system. I think that's where most of his noises come from though. It all compresses out to the side if he needs to consume anything but I don't think there's anything in there that could properly modulate sound and pitch well enough to make words. Quite frankly, I'm impressed he's worked out how to make so many of them already."

"Intelligent creatures always seem to learn how to communicate if they need to," Aziraphale reminds him.

Crowley grunts like he hadn't needed reminding about that, but chooses not to be annoyed about it.

"I'm not sure how he'd even talk to another one like him, if there were any more," he says with another shrug.

"How does the Hell's razor exchange information?" Aziraphale asks. Perhaps if there were similarities there...?

Crowley dismisses the hope in the question with a rude noise.

"Eh, it's far more plant than he is, so it's all a bit, _'grab the thing,' 'can I eat the thing,' 'can I pollinate the thing.'_ Not a lot of deep thought going on there, angel."

They both look at Ivy, who seems to be serenading his tea with a low hum.

"Biscuits!" Aziraphale realises at once. Terribly rude of him to offer around tea without biscuits. Because, unlike cake, Crowley does occasionally enjoy snapping one into pieces while he drinks and talks, and even if he doesn't want to partake it's always polite to have them available, just in case.

He pops back into the kitchen area, trying to remember whether he'd finished off the last packet of fruit shortcakes. While Crowley complains vehemently about the latest technology on his phone being unable to recognise his face unless he takes his glasses off. Then a long, hissing complaint not directed at Aziraphale, about his face being ' _perfectly face-shaped, thank you very much_.'

Aziraphale's still rummaging around for the extra packet of bourbons that he knows are in a cupboard _somewhere_ , but he still manages to catch sight of Crowley stretching a hand out and touching Ivy's mug for a few seconds. Until steam starts to rise from it again. Ivy looses a series of quick, chuffing noises that sound like happiness, drawing the half mug of tea in close. Crowley mutters something quietly to him, before pulling his hand away. After a second of stillness the hand lifts again, much more slowly, brushes once through Ivy's untidy strands of hair. It pulls a soft purr out of the flower, and tugs his focus from the mug to Crowley, an expression of attentive delight on his face.

Aziraphale pretends fiercely that he saw nothing, though he can't quite stop himself from smiling into his third biscuit tin, at the gesture, and at the way it makes the bookshop feel.


	5. Gifts

Crowley's in his preferred seated position, all relaxed angles and deceivingly long legs, impossibly balanced between throne and desk. He's barely paying attention to the drone of morning television, when the knocking at the door starts.

It has the distinct air of politeness and expectation that he'd recognise even without the prickling flare of angelic intent behind it. Which suggests Aziraphale is a smiling shape somewhere beyond the door, waiting to be greeted and invited inside, rather than miracling his way in like he absolutely could do - like Crowley has told him to do on numerous occasions. Which is a frustrating reminder that the angel still sees himself as a guest, rather than someone who can call the space his own. Crowley's debating whether to slink his way to the door and let the angel in himself, or lift a hand and miracle it open, to force the angel to come in and find him, when he realises that there's now a third option.

"Ivy," he yells. "Go let Aziraphale in."

He listens to the shuffle of a six foot tall demonic plant picking himself up off the floor, then the quiet slap of feet gradually heading towards the door of the flat. There's a brief moment of quiet clicking - since Ivy is still learning how handles work - then the sound of a door opening, followed by an excited bark of greeting. Crowley listens to Ivy hum the angel inside, and the faint rustle of shopping bags that suggests Aziraphale has brought lunch with him today. Crowley chooses to take this as a comment on his minimalist kitchen's only occasional ability to provide food.

"Oh, look at you, don't you look lovely, darling," Aziraphale offers, clearly to Ivy. 

Crowley can't resist the quiet snort of amusement at the statement.

"Liar," he mutters, mostly into his own chest. Because Ivy's wardrobe continues to be a blinding assortment of hilariously terrible choices, and all Crowley can do is watch it happen. Today is apparently a green leggings, red denim shorts and yellow jumper sort of day, paired with the most garish turquoise sandal known to man - just the one, as usual, Crowley has no idea where the other one is. He'd been tempted to put his sunglasses back on when Ivy had appeared for breakfast, but felt like the point would have been sadly lost on him. He's still not entirely sure how Ivy sees colour, they may share the same eyes but it's obviously only a surface detail. It had taken him years to adjust to a variety of different visual spectrum, and every one of them found Ivy's outfit too much. 

Crowley slides his feet off the desk and slithers his way upright, saunters out to meet them both. Because Ivy tends to run out of conversation fairly quickly, and Crowley is trying to teach him that squeezing people is not a generally accepted form of greeting. No matter how many irritated clicks he gets on the matter.

Aziraphale looks up when he appears, as if he'd been waiting for him.

"Crowley." There's that soft tone to his name again, as if the angel's pleased to see him. The one Crowley had heard every time he'd shown up to pull Aziraphale out of some sort of trouble - normally that he'd had a hand in causing himself, a fact that always filled Crowley with equal amounts of fondness and exasperation. But that tone has been happening a lot since they both effectively retired, or maybe it's just less subtle than it's always been, because, thinking back on it, Crowley can't actually remember a time when Aziraphale looked disappointed by his presence. 

But today there's a wider than usual smile on the angel's face, one that Crowley sort of wants to react to, in some way, to appreciate it, or acknowledge it? But he forces himself to shove his hands in his pockets instead. He pairs the movement with a nonchalant lean - which Ivy ruins a bit when he starts excitably humming at the angel, like he's trying to use his limited vocabulary to tell Aziraphale about what he's been up to since he last saw him.

"I hope I'm not too early?" Aziraphale offers, as if that could ever be true.

"Never, angel, plants are always up at the crack of dawn. Especially since he's learned that people get to have showers in the morning." Crowley gives Ivy a stern look. Which does nothing, because Ivy is currently curiously stroking Aziraphale's bags, just to hear them crinkle.

"Oh," Aziraphale says, with exactly the right amount of cautious sympathy.

"Yeah." Crowley gives a sharp nod. "I've had to miracle the bathroom door shut until he can work the shower properly by himself without causing a flood, and until he learns the fine art of moderation." Ivy has only just mastered the fine art of dressing himself, and he still needs Crowley's help with his belts and shoes. Crowley had forgotten how much work it was to live with someone who couldn't just clean up after themselves with a miracle. It's almost like having a human around, and it's not like Crowley made much of a habit of that either.

"Speaking of Ivy." Aziraphale turns towards him and opens the bag he's holding, gives it an enthusiastic shake. "I've brought him a present."

"Just Ivy?" Crowley asks curiously, then adds a smirk to say he doesn't really mean it. Because Aziraphale has never brought him a present. Oh, he's given him alcohol occasionally, a gesture that always leaves Crowley muttering about the angel tempting him into vices, or making judgments on his own alcoholic choices, or subtly suggesting that Aziraphale was trying to distract him away from his wiles. But Crowley hopes that there'd always been the understanding that he was grateful, that it meant something to him, even if he'd never been able to voice it out loud. They were never gifts though, Aziraphale doesn't give him _gifts_.

But Aziraphale's smile somehow becomes even more eager, though there's an odd flush to go with it. A nervous readjusting of the bags in his hand.

"No, not just Ivy, I also have something for you, you fiend, but you can wait for yours."

Crowley can't quite help the stunned noise, or the way he rocks on the balls of his feet in surprised pleasure. Confused, and suddenly deeply curious.

Aziraphale rustles for a moment in the bag, before pulling out a neatly wrapped gift. It's rounded, slightly larger at one end than the other, like a cartoon beehive. The paper is tartan, because of course it is. He holds it out to Ivy - who gives a quiet, interested hum and shuffles forward, wriggling his fingers, as if to make sure it's for him.

"I do hope you like it, it seemed appropriate to wrap it, though it's not really for an occasion, as such. But it is rather - er - unconventional."

Aziraphale lays the gift in Ivy's long hands. He immediately squeezes it curiously, and the paper scrunch-rustles sharply. He squeezes it again, which provokes more crinkling noises. Ivy's hum goes low and deep, telling them both that he likes it already, but then Crowley has learned that the flower is easily pleased, especially where Aziraphale is concerned.

"You're supposed to open it," Crowley tells him. "Get your fingers in."

Ivy looks back at him, blinking his confusion, he doesn't seem to realise that there's more to the present.

Crowley sighs and leans over, finds a fold in the paper at the end, where Aziraphale's carefully neat wrapping has allowed the slightest gap, he slips his finger in and then pulls gently, until the sellotape gives a tacky un-sticking noise.

Ivy's startled bark of interest is enough for Crowley to pull his hand away, shove it back in his pocket. Even Aziraphale can't help an amused, encouraging noise at the flower's look of astonishment.

"Right, there you go, he gets it."

Ivy pokes at the hole, tugs at the tape, then again a little harder when it resists. The paper tears dramatically and Ivy stops, gives a little hiccuping cough of uncertainty, looks at Crowley for help.

Crowley rolls a hand at the thing. "No, it's supposed to do that, keep going."

Ivy does as he's told, tearing the paper in slow, testing pulls, until what's underneath is revealed. It's bright red, smooth and shiny, a hole at both ends revealing an empty space in the middle.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says carefully.

"Hmm?" There's an innocent look, as if the angel has no possible idea why Crowley would be - oh, full of questions right now.

"Is that what I think it is?" 

"I know what you're thinking." Aziraphale's voice is already veering into hurried explanation territory. "But it's made of industrial strength rubber, it's almost indestructible -" 

"It's a dog toy," Crowley points out.

Aziraphale's frustrated noise cuts off the rest. "Yes, but Ivy has broken or mangled every one that you've bought him that were made for people," he reminds him. "I've seen you re-shaping them, and miracling them back to their original condition. His muscles are still growing and -"

"He doesn't have any muscles," Crowley protests, because they'd had this talk a few weeks ago. "It's all just vines in there."

"Well, then his vines are growing," Aziraphale says, as if that's a perfectly normal thing to say about their - about the demon-plant they're attempting to raise well. "And the ones for human-based strength were stunting his growth."

Crowley has to resist the urge to laugh at how _earnest_ Aziraphale looks. At how he can say things like that with absolute seriousness, and just a hint of vaguely parental worry.

"They weren't stunting his - a dog toy, Aziraphale, of all the things -"

There's a loud, wavering whoop from Ivy, who's now sitting on the floor, squeezing his present furiously with both hands, an expression of delighted concentration on his face. The thing barely deforms under his fingers. He barks at it, and then squeezes harder, and his noises turn into the short, coughing huffs of amused happiness. Crowley watches him for a minute, then sighs in defeat.

"Alright, fine, well-played, it's his new favourite thing." Of course Ivy would like the things Aziraphale gives him best. He's the nice one after all. Crowley can't even be annoyed about it. 

"It's made for very large, powerful breeds." Aziraphale is still desperately trying to explain his decision-making, Crowley lets him, even though he's already in reluctant agreement, he'll let the angel squirm uncomfortably for a minute longer. "Which means that it's more than tough enough to cope with a bit of excited attention. Or a bit of over-excited squeezing. Since we don't quite know how strong he's going to be yet."

They don't know much about what Ivy's going to be yet. But Aziraphale seems determined that they find out together. Which involves them spending more time together than they have since they both worked for the Dowlings. Which is why Crowley had secretly had a second key to his flat made - well, alright, not secretly, he just hadn't told anyone else. Not that either of them need keys, his wards will open for the angel if he wants them to. 

He's thought about giving the thing to Aziraphale every time he's seen him for the last month, but somehow he hasn't found the right time yet. He's worried it will come across as too much. That Aziraphale will take it the wrong way, or read something into it he doesn't intend. Crowley wants it to feel like it doesn't mean anything. But he also wants it to feel like it means everything. He definitely doesn't want it to feel like he's pushing. Not when they have...whatever this is they're doing now, which already feels like so much more than he ever expected.

Which is why the key is still shoved in his jeans - or in a pocket dimension ready to be in his jeans pocket at a moment's notice, and he's still cursing himself regularly for being a coward (though not literally because, quite frankly, he's cursed enough already.) He just doesn't want to ruin anything.

"So," Crowley says, if only to drag himself out of his own thoughts. "You said you had something for me too?"

Aziraphale's expression turns into something flustered, and he fidgets with one of the bags he's still holding, easing the handles apart and then scrunching them together with a short laugh.

"Oh, umm, yes, well I was looking for something for Ivy and I - it's really nothing special, feel absolutely free to - to throw it away if you don't like it, or if it's not to your taste. It was just a thought."

Crowley raises an eyebrow, at that nervous confession. Because he'd been assuming his gift would be alcohol of some sort, a familiar, tall bottle of wine, or perhaps a short, square bottle of something a bit stronger, maybe a fancy glass bottle with some odd fruit concoction inside. Something they've done before, easy, safe choices that could be set on a table, left carelessly by his elbow, or gestured in his direction. They could be for anyone, no suggestion of affection, or camaraderie, or familiarity to them. No, that's always been Crowley's line hasn't it. Crowley's the one who takes notes, the one who observes and listens, the one who takes the time to discover what Aziraphale wants, the things that will make him happy. He's the one of them who has crossed oceans for an ' _oh, Crowley, how did you know_?' 

Crowley hadn't been expecting an actual present, an actual present that required thought and consideration, something that Aziraphale had chosen especially for him. It's never happened before, and he's not prepared for it, how is he supposed to react to this?

"I know we don't really, as a rule," Aziraphale explains slowly, almost apologetically, as if he hadn't noticed Crowley's unstable moment of internal panic. "I just - I saw it and thought of you."

He saw it and thought of him. Crowley forces himself to stay very still, rather than lean in towards Aziraphale, which is what his spine seems to want to do, what it threatens to do the moment he stops paying attention. He forces out a grunt of curious interest, as casual as he can make it.

Aziraphale rustles in the bag for a moment, making noises like he can't find what he's looking for - when Crowley suspects that it's the only thing left inside. Before he eventually pulls out a black, oblong box, which he gently offers in Crowley's direction.

"Here." Aziraphale hands it over, and then gives an awkward laughing exhale, smile suddenly looking a little pained, as if he's embarrassed by whatever's inside, or perhaps by the gesture. Crowley can't imagine the angel has given many gifts.

Crowley has never had a gift from Aziraphale before, and he's torn between drawing it out as long as possible, and ripping the thing open to discover what the angel had seen that touched him strongly enough that he'd felt compelled to buy it for him. Though Crowley already knows without even looking that whatever it is, even if it's the tackiest, most hideous piece of kitschy nonsense he's ever seen, that he's going to love it, there's no question about that.

The box comes open neatly, revealing its contents, settled on artistic folds of red fabric.

Crowley stops breathing entirely, forgets that he even needs to.

It's a glasses case, in silver, with a scaled pattern to the metal. There are two black snakes on the lid, curling around each other in a way that makes Crowley wheeze out what air remains in his chest. The snakes are inlaid carefully with dozens of glossy, black gemstones, four tiny yellow stones have been affixed for the eyes. He stares at it for a long moment, feeling far too many things.

He looks up at Aziraphale, who gives him a very nervous, very hopeful smile.

_I saw it and thought of you_.

Crowley's mouth is doing something complicated that he didn't give it permission to do, and his throat sudden refuses to work. He convinces it otherwise through sheer force of will.

"Aziraphale -"

Aziraphale interrupts him before he can get anything else out.

"I shan't be offended at all if you don't like it, of course," he says, in a hurried, panicked sort of way. "It just, it seemed to fit your aesthetic, which I know is very important to you. But if you want to throw it away -" He makes a gesture to go with the words, a casual flinging motion.

" _No_ ," Crowley says fiercely, horrified by the suggestion. "I'm not going to throw it away." He looks at it again, he can't seen to stop. "It's mine now, that's how gifts work. I'm keeping it. 'Specially since you, y'know, went to the trouble of finding it for me. An angel buying a demon gifts, that's got to - got to get me points, get one of us points." He stops when something belatedly occurs to him. "Not that we need them any more." He lets the silence drag on for a moment, battering old habits into submission, because he needs to say something. "I like it," he says at last, and the words don't come out grudging, though they sound a touch more aggressive than he was going for. "So...thanks, I guess."

He carefully takes the case out of the box, opens it slowly, before reaching into his inside pocket and drawing his glasses free, setting them inside. Then he puts the case on his desk, where he can see it whenever he wants.

So they're making gestures today, he supposes. He can - he should -

"Right, I have something for you too, I guess, s'not a present, just something I had made." He fishes in his pocket, tugs out the key he'd been holding onto like a coward, and thrusts it at Aziraphale - who juggles his empty bags, and his one remaining full bag - to take it.

"Oh." Aziraphale looks surprised, blinking at Crowley like he doesn't understand.

"It's a key," Crowley says. "To the flat, obviously. So you don't have to knock. So you can just come in, any time you like, to visit me, or take care of Ivy, or see the both of us. Whenever, you don't have to call ahead or anything." If he attempts to look any more casual he'll technically no longer be upright.

Aziraphale smiles, face lighting up like Crowley had just saved the world single-handedly, and being the focus of that is like being gently destroyed by a sunbeam. Crowley nods frantically in a bid to keep his expression of cool nonchalance intact. He's failing, he can feel himself failing, where's a fucking distraction when you need one -

There's a sudden flash of motion, followed by a loud thumping noise from the outer hall, and what sounds a lot like breaking glass. 

"What the Hell?"

"Oh." Aziraphale looks down a second before Crowley gets it. Ivy's waving his empty hands frantically, and wearing what Crowley has come to think of as his sheepish, guilty look.

"Did you just rocket that thing out of the room?" Crowley asks.

Ivy looks at his hands, then he looks back up at Crowley and waves them again, pointedly, as if to show that he's no longer in possession of the instrument of destruction. Just in case there will be consequences. 

"Yes, I know you're not holding it any more." Crowley sighs. "Go on then, go find it, I'll fix whatever it broke later."

Ivy pulls himself upright, wanders out into the hall, giving quick, curious clicks that gradually decrease in volume, as if he's determined to echo-locate the damn thing.

"Well, I suppose at least this proves how sturdy it is," Aziraphale says carefully, a hint of apology in the words. "It's a good job your flat is so bare, that will spare you some breakages I expect." 

Crowley's stuck somewhere between utter exasperation at the angel's ability to be impossible and infuriating, and the knowledge that he loves him so painfully and all-consumingly that sometimes it feels like _literally_ being on fire.

That all comes out as some sort of annoyed throat noise. But Aziraphale should be used to that by now.

"I suppose I should be grateful it wasn't a bloody drum kit, shouldn't I?" Crowley says.


	6. The Gardener's World

Crowley can't help but notice that two of the anthurium are looking a bit pale at the edges today. Their leaves not quite as vibrantly green as they should be, when tipped into the light. It's the sort of thing they can't possibly think that he would miss.

This isn't the first time Crowley's caught them looking as if they're not trying their best either, and he can't help but feel like they're taking advantage of the new system he'd implemented. Of its more lax and forgiving nature, that he'd explained in detail a month after Ivy had bloomed. He knows that if he lets this behaviour slide it'll just encourage the others, make them think he's gone soft, that they can get away with the odd blemish here and there. He has no choice but to make an example of this obvious laziness. Perhaps they all need a sharp reminder of what happens to plants that don't try their best? 

"Don't think I don't see you _slacking off_." There's a low, hissing sharpness to his voice, and his hand reaches out and lifts the shears from the open cabinet just inside the room, flicking the safety catch with his thumb so they spring open, blades glinting in the light. "That I don't see you letting your progress slide, seeing if you can sneak a few imperfections past me. I will not stand for it. Don't think for one second my new leniency means that I will give special treatment to any one of you. That I don't still expect all of you to meet a certain standard."

He imagines their gentle rustling is a chorus of excuses and protests. There are always excuses and protests.

"No, Ivy doesn't count," he snaps. "Have any of you lot ever grown legs, crawled your way out of your pots and walked out of here on your own. No, no, you haven't! Which means you are all still subject to my very specific instructions and demands." He snaps the shears at them menacingly. "Which means - no wilting, no yellowing, no bent stems, no blemishes, and absolutely no infestations. Do I make myself CLEAR!"

Crowley bites down on the last word, reminding himself that he'd promised not to raise his voice at the plants now that he had one living in the house.

Even though Ivy was - Ivy was different, Ivy wasn't like them, Ivy didn't count. Even if his main plant body was in here. A tangle of large vines and spikes, and stretches of fibrous matter that caught the odd insect, or stray bird, that made its way in through the skylight. The greeny-red of it spiralling around a soft patch of soil and bark, where Ivy tucks himself when it's sunny, or he's tired, where he'll hum quietly while the vines curl and wrap around his toes and ankles.

"I've been especially lenient with all of you since Ivy arrived," Crowley reminds them all. "Because he likes you, because he's fond of you. Ivy's the reason I give you opportunities to correct your behaviour now, opportunities to stay here with your friends. And the ones that don't measure up, the ones that disappoint me, the ones that are _removed and disposed of_ , I take cuttings of them, so they can have another chance. Whether this system works better -" He pauses to get a good look at all of them, slowly closing the shears until the plastic coated legs creak. "I haven't decided yet."

There's a sudden, curious coughing noise behind him. Crowley hisses surprise and slides around on his heel, finds Ivy smiling in the empty doorway. He hurriedly snaps the shears behind his back, the metal of the blades pressing hard to the base of his spine

The last time he'd seen Ivy, the flower had been squeezing his red toy on the kitchen floor, making clicking noises of frustration, and then happy noises that Crowley had tentatively labelled either triumph or satisfaction. He'd left him to it, reasoning that he couldn't get into trouble there - not now the kitchen tap needed a miracle to turn on. Only he's not in the kitchen any more, no, now he's in the doorway, bony knees touching beneath the hem of his yellow sundress, the sleeves of his bright green jumper untidily rolled up.

His sandals are both missing, as usual.

"I thought you were in the kitchen." It comes out like an accusation, but Ivy just does his flexing finger movements, almost a wave, as if to demonstrate that he's here now. It's possible that he'd come looking for him.

Crowley takes a few steps forward, until he can lean into the recessed cabinet and hook the shears back into their empty space, push the door shut with his knee.

"I'm nearly finished in here, I was just about to water them."

Ivy sways just outside the room, heads for the fashionable, hidden nook that holds Crowley's spare pots, stakes and fertiliser, and the bulk of his new watering can. He'd been forced to invest in a much bigger one, since Ivy's vine-wrapped main body required a lot more water than the others, the mass of it stretching all the way up one wall. Ivy makes an encouraging, excited gesture towards the watering can, which Crowley doesn't understand but which feels like a question, or maybe a request?

"Yep, that's the one, you can get it out for me."

Ivy crouches, long hands curling around the handle and the spout and lifting it out, carrying it over to Crowley with a strange, wavering hum. He's clearly resisting the urge to squeeze it. He's getting better at knowing how much effort he can put into squeezing different materials before they break, or deform. Though the unpredictability of plastic still gives him a bit of trouble sometimes.

Crowley can't help but notice how pleased he looks though.

"You want to help, petal?" He nods towards the watering can gently tucked into Ivy's chest.

Ivy's soft noise, waving gesture, and the stretch and clench of his bare toes, feels like a definite yes. 

Crowley encourages him over to the tap - also miracled to only turn on for Crowley or Aziraphale - and fills the watering can for him. Then he offers it over, so the handle's at the perfect height to take.

"Alright, grip this bit." He shows Ivy where to put his hands, and Ivy's long, cold fingers curl around the stiff plastic, he takes its weight with no more trouble than Crowley. Which isn't surprising, Crowley's felt the tangle of vines where his arms attach. The knotted, jutting twist of them where his elbow should sit.

Ivy seems genuinely excited at the prospect of being involved. Crowley should have thought of this before. Ivy's already proven he's more than capable of following directions and performing basic tasks, if he's shown how by someone else. Crowley's been worrying a lot lately that he's not giving him enough stimulation, that he's not feeding whatever intelligence or creativity he might have. Maybe some responsibility would be good for him? 

"Right, we're starting on the left. Remember that we can't give them too much water, it's not good for them. Like that time you were in the shower too long - you remember what happened?"

Ivy makes a strange, mournful noise, something between a cough and hoot. He'd looked so betrayed and miserable throwing up water everywhere. But Crowley hopes it means that he's learned his lesson when it comes to over-indulgence. Though he has no doubt that Ivy will find something else to stick his fingers in, or make a mess of, because he seems to have fallen into a curious phase of his development. One that Aziraphale has been carefully encouraging, and Crowley has mostly been cleaning up after.

Crowley tucks in behind Ivy, and shows him how to raise the watering can, how to stand and adjust his centre of gravity, so its weight doesn't pull him over. 

"These two don't need watering today." Crowley points at the two largest plants, either side of the door. "So we skip over them. And just remember, not too much water in the soil for these next two, just a touch." He holds Ivy's elbow as the watering can wobbles in his inexperienced grip. He teaches him how to slowly and carefully tip it forward, until water spills from the end. Which gets a whistling noise - that Crowley is now almost certain is satisfaction - and the soft, squeaking sound of his toes clenching excitably on the floor. 

He's clearly enjoying this. He's having fun, and Crowley ignores the hot, conflicted thing in his chest that still insists that neither of them are allowed. 

"You're doing a good job." He makes himself say. It's raspy and quiet, awkward in his mouth, but Ivy deserves to hear it. Ivy has never been to Hell, he doesn't belong to them. There'll never be anyone telling him that he can't be good, that he can't enjoy things if he wants to. He'll never be told he doesn't deserve kindness, or affection. There will be no burning rooms that stink of sulphur and misery, filled with demons telling him what he has to be, or trying to teach him how to hurt people. He can feel whatever he wants to feel.

Ivy isn't him. Ivy doesn't have to be him. 

"That's exactly right," Crowley says, a little more firmly.

He shuffles Ivy over to the back of the row, and the bunch and pull of his green jumper as he leans and pours, is soft under Crowley's fingers. The chill of him seeps through the wool, but Crowley can feel the vibration from his sounds through his hands, the living squirm and stretch of him. The way Ivy moves so easily, so trustingly where Crowley directs him. He smells like forests and rain, and new clothes, and the citrus shampoo that he'd chosen from Crowley's collection. Which always leaves him with an unmanageable flop of hair, that Crowley has attempted to do something with numerous times, only to give up in disgust. He still tries though, still tries to put Ivy into some sort of order, that's what people do with their - with their - that's what people do. He's not used to caring about anything that isn't Aziraphale. He's not used to the way Ivy looks at him, as if he's important, as if everything he does matters. He's not sure he knows how to do it right.

"A bit more for that one." Crowley tips his head at a large pot, and Ivy obediently pours.

They do the left side of the room, Crowley pointing, tidying pots, and teaching Ivy how to dip his fingers into the soil. He'd wager the flower is better at testing the water and nitrogen content than him, and he's proven right when there's a low, vibrating hum, and Ivy needs no more instruction about how long to pour for.

They've reached the back of the room, where Ivy's footprints from this morning are still sunk deep into the soil, the tangle of roots and wide, sharp, spiky leaves, where he settles sometimes under the skylight to watch the sun go past. He gives a quiet huff and pours water into the prints, until they fill, like little tide pools, much to his obvious amusement.

"Ivy." Crowley's not sure what he means to say, though Ivy stops pouring and looks up, his big, yellow eyes curious and happy. It's absolutely nothing like looking in a mirror. 

Eventually he just encourages Ivy to the other side of the room, where he follows the rows of plants, tipping and watering and following Crowley's instructions, occasionally clicking and prodding at a leaf, as if to test how it's growing. His noises gradually get higher, and faster, as if he's attempting to talk to the plant he's watering. Crowley doesn't have a great handle on Ivy's tone yet. He genuinely can't tell if he's gently encouraging the thing, or giving it a sharp warning to behave. He's surprised by how quickly the thought makes something twist inside him, hard and unpleasant. The thought that Ivy might have picked up Crowley's tendency to demand things from them, to threaten them - leaves him feeling strangely exposed.

"These are all much older than you," Crowley tells him, though he doesn't want to think too hard about why that matters, about why it sounds so much like an excuse. "I've had them for ages, been teaching them how to grow for years. They're used to it, you know, they expect a firm hand. They're tougher than they look -"

Ivy's sharp-fingered hand is still prodding a leaf.

Crowley finds himself lifting his own hand, catching Ivy's and drawing it gently down and away. He gives a slow head-shake, feeling the way Ivy's fingers wriggle in his briefly, before squeezing around Crowley's palm. He lets the warmth of his own hand seep into Ivy's for a moment, before he lets him go. 

"I think they've had enough for the day," Crowley decides, determined to ignore the tightness in his throat.

The watering can is empty, but Ivy seems reluctant to release it, as if he wants to fill it up again and dole out more watery gifts to his fellow plants. 

_To his fellow plants._

"Aziraphale will be here soon." Crowley finds himself saying, and isn't entirely surprised when Ivy's toes grip at the dark floor, a short, low vibration making its way out of him. "You want to have a go at making him some tea?"

There's a slow, leaning fall of Ivy's head, which repeats, as though he's falling asleep. It's as close as Ivy can get to a nod. Something about the way his vines attach his head to his body seems to make quick, or rhythmic, head movements difficult. But Crowley still considers it progress.

"Come on then, the plants are - they're growing well enough. I'll take some cuttings from the good ones later."

Ivy dries his damp fingers on his jumper, and takes Crowley's hand.

-

Aziraphale doesn't think anyone has ever been as pleased to see him as Ivy. His presence has rarely been met with such constant and obvious delight, save perhaps from Crowley, when he thinks Aziraphale isn't looking - though he should know by now that Aziraphale is always looking. He suspects the demon has either forgotten that fact, or decided to pretend otherwise. He's loath to bring it up though, because those expressions of genuine fondness and strangely frustrated affection have taken him through many a long and lonely absence. Even now that they're both free, Crowley seems not quite brave enough, or perhaps entirely unwilling, to share his feelings openly. No, Aziraphale can't risk bringing attention to them.

But he'll continue to hoard them.

Ivy's noises of welcome, and the immediate catch and squeeze of his long fingers and even longer arms, never fails to warm him all the way through, hugging the thin flower back, until his hum goes low and deep. The greeting is certainly different to Crowley's low murmur of Aziraphale's favourite endearment. Followed by the graceful, angular lean that, as always, seems strangely protective, even as Crowley weaves in and out of Aziraphale's personal space as if he's afraid to impose. Though both of their smiles have something of a similarity to them.

Ivy spends twenty minutes examining the box of colourful macaroons that Crowley had bought for Aziraphale. Crowley calls him nosy, and tuts, but doesn't stop him, possibly because he doesn't actually attempt to put any of the confections in his mouth. Aziraphale is fairly certain that Ivy's appreciation of colour isn't connected to his need or desire for sustenance. He's not even certain if Ivy's body experiences hunger - or, at least not in a way that he would understand it. Perhaps it's more of a visual pleasure for him, because Ivy does seem to enjoy touching and holding and squeezing coloured things. Not that Aziraphale minds indulging him, oh, not in the slightest, even if that means eating the macaroons in the strange order that Ivy devises, placing them in a curving shape on the plate that Crowley grudgingly provides. Aziraphale's willingness to play along seems to thrill him, if the huffs of strange laughter and odd, crooning noises of happiness are to be believed.

The only reason Aziraphale hasn't finished the entire box already is that he's currently doing most of the talking.

"And so I told him, of course, that the book wasn't for sale. Which, honestly, always just seems to encourage them. They will all inevitably give me that look, as if they've taken my refusal to sell as a terrible inconvenience, or a personal insult. As if whatever volume has taken their fancy all but belongs to them already, and I am refusing to hand it over."

"It's the money," Crowley says, from where he's lounging in the throne, one leg thrown over its gaudy, golden arm. "It's always been the money, doesn't matter if it's beads, or gold, or bits of paper. It's a -" he stops, exhales a noise that sounds irritated. "What's the word, thingy, holds power over something."

Aziraphale opens his mouth, to offer several words which might fit the frustrated movements of Crowley's mouth - and a few that really shouldn't but are equally likely, because Crowley's choices aren't always predictable.

"Talisman," Crowley eventually says triumphantly. "That's it! It's a talisman to them, they think it'll get them whatever they want if they wave enough of it at you hard enough. Always have done. That certainty that anything that belongs to you could be theirs for the right price." 

Aziraphale gestures with his purple macaroon, in a way that Crowley seems to instinctively know is agreement. 

"Exactly, dreadfully rude, so of course I had to send the unpleasant man away, with a sudden intense feeling that he was needed elsewhere." Aziraphale frowns, mouth pulling into something which he knows looks guilty, and Crowley knows him too well not to spot it. "I may have overdone it just a bit though, I'll admit, because he rushed away muttering something about having to catch the first train. I hope he makes it back home eventually not too much the worse for wear."

"You're terrible." For all that the word is a judgement Crowley's not even trying to hide his smile. "You always overdo it, s'what you do when you're especially peeved, you push too hard. It personally offends you, that naked greed to get their hands on your books. That assumption that they _deserve_ to own your books."

Aziraphale strangles the urge to give an irritated huff, which will only immediately confirm that Crowley is absolutely right.

"I simply insist that they find themselves with a pressing need to be elsewhere, I don't harm them, of course I don't harm them," Aziraphale protests firmly.

"No," Crowley says, though he drags the word out pointedly, as if he's still considering if it fits. "No, they just end up at the seaside, in the pouring rain, staring at the sea, with a vague, panicked sense of having been harried out of London by an unnameable doom, unable to actually get any further away from you. But not _harmed_."

Honestly, that much amusement is uncalled for.

"There is no _doom_ , I'm not responsible for dooming anyone, that's a terrible thing to say." Aziraphale wags a macaroon at him, which for some reason just makes Crowley laugh harder. "They almost certainly all get home safely in the end."

"Uh huh, sure, course they do, safe and sound." Crowley's smile is far too sharp, when he stretches his body out as far as he can, and a fair bit past human tolerances, to top up Aziraphale's glass. Though he does take a moment to tip his head over the side of the throne, into the dimly lit hall.

"Where'd Ivy go?"

Aziraphale frowns and peers over the back of Crowley's new sofa, half expecting to find him squeezing something at floor level.

"I'm not entirely sure, he was here a moment ago."

Crowley lifts a hand and snaps his fingers, and all the doors in his flat swing gently open.

Aziraphale can hear Ivy now, in the plant room judging by the direction of the sounds. He's making quiet but determined noises, slightly muffled, possibly by the foliage he's decided he wants to investigate. There's the occasional shuffling drag of something across a stone floor, and then a series of quiet click-clack noises, as if he's found something to play with. Aziraphale suspects something he shouldn't be playing with. Isn't that what the young do the moment those responsible for them aren't looking, investigate things which have been forbidden to them? 

Crowley must be having the same thought, because he sets his drink down with an irritated sigh and puts his legs into some sort of order.

"Wait here, I'll see what he's up to." Crowley slides off the sofa, in a way that somehow manages to look both awkward and elegant, though Aziraphale pretends he hasn't noticed.

He drinks his wine and rearranges the cushions behind him, while the demon pads his way out to see whether Ivy is simply talking to the plants, or whether he's emptying soil out into the bathtub again. Crowley had been rather cross about that last one. Aziraphale isn't sure even Ivy knew what he was doing there. Perhaps it was simply a plant child's idea of something wonderfully creative to do. Aziraphale had found it rather charming, though he'd also admit to being very happy that Crowley was the one left to clean up the mess that had resulted. How does one discipline a young plant anyway?

He's helping himself to another macaroon when he hears Ivy give a short bark of greeting, that suggests he hadn't been doing anything he was too worried about being caught for. But the confection pauses halfway to his mouth, when there's a startled hiss of shock, loud enough to echo through the flat, and then the sound of something very loudly tipping over. 

"Ivy, what the - Ivy, what did you do? _What did you do?!_ " Crowley's voice is a shaking mess of panic and horror, the words rushing together. "Aziraphale! AZIRAPHALE!"


	7. Cuttings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains self-mutilation. Though no self-harm is ever intended, it's viewed as self-harm by other characters. I understand if anyone wants to skip this chapter, and I will briefly summarise it in the end notes.

Aziraphale drops the macaroon he's holding and surges to his feet, he doesn't waste time taking himself to Crowley physically, he simply compresses the parts of the world that are between them, until they no longer matter. Skipping over them entirely, to appear beside him - beside the both of them - in a burst of static and ozone. Crowley's plants are a sudden, vibrant spread of colour surrounding them in the small space. 

Crowley himself is hunched over Ivy in a clumsy, falling crouch, one leg folded impossibly underneath him, boots crushing broken pottery and clods of dirt. Both his hands are curled round Ivy's elbows, the grip awkward and too-tight, and clearly in the process of pulling the flower's hands apart. The room smells like spilled soil, deep forests, and the sharp, bitter scent of Crowley's own emotions. 

"Aziraphale." There's a desperate demand for assistance in his name. 

Ivy's sitting on the floor, in a loose, cross-legged position. The bowl that Crowley uses to store and separate cuttings is balanced in his lap, on the gathered material of his yellow sundress. One long hand holds the shears, the other hand is - the other hand has clearly been the focus of Ivy's attention.

For a moment Aziraphale is too shocked - too horrified - to form words. There's no blood from any of the wounds, just a scatter of tiny, green and black tendrils on Ivy's bare legs. He can feel Crowley next to him, the too-fast rush of his breathing, the way he seems afraid to loosen his grip on Ivy's arms.

"Oh, Ivy," Aziraphale says softly. 

He sinks carefully down next to him, ignoring the way soil from a knocked over bag compresses, cold and damp, beneath his knee. 

"Let me have those." He offers a hand over the bowl that Ivy had carefully placed beneath his own, trying his very best not to look too closely at it, or its content. Ivy carefully lays the shears in Aziraphale's palm, with a wavering, uncertain sort of questioning noise. "There we are, you don't need them any more." He closes the blades, and sets the safety catch, for all the good it did. 

Ivy clearly doesn't understand why they're both in the room with him, why they're both so tense, or why Crowley is so angry. He doesn't seem to be in any pain, or in any way distressed by the rather severe pruning he's given himself.

"I couldn't stop him." Crowley's voice is thin and breathy, not enough air to form words. "He'd already cut them off. Got the blades off his thumb though, before he could take - fuck, Aziraphale, I didn't know what he was doing in here." 

"I know," Aziraphale says, when he's not entirely sure that he does. It seems a reassuring thing to say though, which he suspects Crowley needs at this point. 

He sets the shears asides, refuses to notice the way that the blades are smeared green and black, delicate green vines clinging to them. Crowley immediately retrieves them. Aziraphale doesn't see what he does, but he takes the disgusted noise, and the brief flare of Hellish power, to mean that he disposes of them. That doesn't seem to be enough for him though, because Crowley is already reaching for the bowl that sits in Ivy's lap, the bowl he'd been carefully collecting his cuttings in. There's no doubt in Aziraphale's mind that it's something he's watched Crowley do before, that it's something he'd remembered and filed away as important. Crowley must realise as much too, pushing the bowl angrily away as far as he can. 

Ivy's fingers reach out, as if to protest Crowley so quickly discarding his offerings, before they drop into his lap, nails scratching and tugging at the material there. He's quite obviously taken it as a rejection, something he seems genuinely confused and hurt by. Aziraphale thinks that he understands what Ivy was trying to accomplish. Though that doesn't make being a witness to it any easier. 

"Let me see your hand," Aziraphale says gently, and makes a slow, coaxing motion.

Ivy obediently stretches his hand out to him, his throat making quick, rising and falling sounds that Aziraphale has never heard before. 

He examines the neatly severed ends of Ivy's fingers. Where the vines and threads are slowly tangling and stretching upwards, already forming the shapes of bone and muscle, even as the skin slowly moves up to cover them. Of course, Aziraphale remembers Crowley mentioning his regenerative abilities several times in the past. Which he's not going to pretend isn't something of a great relief. Though it does nothing to dull the shock that Ivy would do such a thing in the first place.

Crowley is still hunched, awkwardly, in front of Ivy's knees, shoulders drawn up so stiffly that his wrists jut sharply from his sleeves. He's making no attempt to hide his horror at what they'd both walked in on.

"The vines are already rebuilding his fingers." Aziraphale means the words to be reassuring, but they just seem to make it more real somehow, to draw attention to it in a way that seems crude and unnecessary. He can't help but slide his thumb back and forth across Ivy's cold palm. It's a soothing gesture, though he's not entirely sure which of them it's for. "I think he'll have a full hand again before teatime."

"S'not the point." Crowley's voice sounds painful and raw. It hurts to hear, and Aziraphale already knows that he'll blame himself for this. That he already thinks this is his fault. 

Aziraphale pushes Ivy's hair out of his face, the fall of it soft between his fingers, he tucks a bit of it behind Ivy's ear, holds it there for a moment. Which gets him a quiet, questioning hum.

"Darling, you don't need to take cuttings of yourself," Aziraphale says quietly. "Nothing is going to happen to you. You're perfectly safe."

"I told him he was good," Crowley says numbly, shaking his head as if it was the worst thing he could have said to him. "Good plants get cuttings, I told him. Good plants get a second chance. I didn't mean him, Aziraphale, how could he think I meant him? He's not a fucking houseplant."

"Hush," Aziraphale tells him. "It's a misunderstanding, that's all, it's no one's fault."

"It's clearly my fault." Crowley's protest is sharp enough that Aziraphale suspects nothing he could say will convince him otherwise, but he has to try.

"Ivy knows he's a plant. He's always been aware of that, and of the fact that he's not like us," Aziraphale reminds him. "He noticed that you'd taken cuttings of all of your other plants but him. I expect he reasoned that he was good and didn't want to be left out." Aziraphale is still holding Ivy's damaged hand, he gives it a gentle squeeze, that he hopes conveys that they're not angry with him. "There was no intent to harm. I'm sure it made perfect sense to him. He probably even thought he was helping you. He knew that it wouldn't hurt him. I don't think he understands why we're so upset."

"We're upset because you don't cut bits off of yourssself," Crowley says sharply, the volume of his voice wavering like he wants to be shouting but is forcing himself not to. 

Aziraphale gives him a pointed look, until Crowley hisses and exhales, and tries to look less furious.

"I think we need to treat it like something to be worried about. We need to treat it like a wound, perhaps he'll understand then?"

"What do you want to do, bandage it up? Pack his chopped-off fingers in a bag of bloody peas." Crowley's so angry that Aziraphale can feel it, a prickle of sharpness to the air, but it's wrapped tightly around so much more. There's worry, and fear, and guilt, some of them far older than Ivy. There's so much hurt there that Aziraphale reaches out, the way he's never quite had the courage to, and curls a hand round Crowley's arm. It's so very strange, for a second, because it feels so much like Ivy's. Aziraphale has had those long arms tangled through his own, and wrapped around him, and under his hands while he taught Ivy how to do up his sandals. But they were never Crowley's, and the thought presses on something old and guilty, a far too familiar pain. That he's never cared for Crowley the way he's wanted to in the past. That he's never been able to reach out, to touch him when he was distressed, the way he should have done.

He packs the feeling down and squeezes gently. He hopes Crowley know that he's here for him now, that he will always be here, that they will fix this together.

Something in Crowley relaxes at the gesture, perhaps Ivy has somehow trained them both to find it a comfort at this point. But when Crowley looks up his face is still pinched and tight, with confusion and guilt. It makes him look old and tired, and Aziraphale can't help but think that he doesn't know how to express everything he's feeling, that there's too much of it, and that some of it is too deep to pull out. 

"A bandage might be a good idea actually," Aziraphale realises. "It might help him to see that we care about making him whole. Not to mention encouraging the idea that he needs to leave it alone to heal." He makes a brief gesture, and he's holding a generic roll of clean, white bandage. He lays Ivy's hand on his knee, and very carefully starts to fold the material around the damage, being careful not to compress the still-growing ends.

"You scared us quite badly," Aziraphale tells Ivy. "Do you understand that?"

Ivy doesn't make a single noise while Aziraphale tends to him. His toes, and the fingers on his other hand are loose and still. Ivy is very rarely this still, or this quiet. Even when bedded down with his original plant he waves and sways and makes soft noises, that almost feel like he's talking to himself. Aziraphale wonders if this is what guilt, or perhaps misery looks like for him. This confused, uncertain silence, as if he doesn't know which noises or gestures will help the situation, and which will make it worse, and has settled for none.

Crowley sighs beside him, rocks on his feet in a way that feels conflicted, before he shoves an upturned pot out of the way and sits himself down next to Ivy, back to the plinth that holds a large, purple anthurium. His long legs left stretched out in front of him, one boot hiked up on a bag of compost.

Ivy makes a very soft noise, and Crowley sighs out a breath and pushes himself closer, until his shoulder knocks against Ivy's, the dark material of his jacket pressed to Ivy's jumper. 

"We're not cross with you, petal," he says. The words are careful and flat, but Aziraphale can see how much effort he's putting in. "We know you were just trying to -" Crowley's eyes move to Ivy's hand, slowly disappearing under the bandage, before he forces them quickly away and hisses air through his teeth. "I know what you were trying to do. Maybe what you thought I wanted you to do. But we like you better in one piece."

"Humans, and ethereal and occult beings can't just grow their fingers back," Aziraphale adds. It's hard to try and explain this when he's not sure how much Ivy understands about how things work, or about how _he_ works, beyond instinct - whatever that means for him. Whether he truly sees himself as a singular being, or if he has a grasp of the concept of permanent harm, or death. There's still a possibility that his thoughts and experiences are very different to theirs, and he's simply adapting as best as he can. But Ivy has learned so much already, has understood so much already, that Aziraphale feels like it's fair to try. "Humans have to live without them, or have new ones made up for them to use instead. Even we have to use a miracle when we're badly injured. You understand how cutting bits of yourself off can upset us, don't you?"

Ivy draws in air as if he's going to make a noise - but there's nothing, just the same, unhappy silence. Aziraphale sighs and finishes the bandage. Crowley snaps up some tape to secure the end, before leaving his bulky hand to settle in his lap. Ivy lets it knock gently against the other, fingers briefly twisting together, as if he wants the comfort of something to squeeze. But the rest of him barely moves, and the strange, unnatural stillness from someone Aziraphale is used to being so vibrant, so restless, and constantly overjoyed at the world around him - it's terribly wrong. 

Crowley must feel the same, because he slithers an arm around behind Ivy's back, hand curling at the bend of his skinny waist. Aziraphale watches his fingers press in, and pull, until Ivy tips gently but inevitably into Crowley's side, bare feet scrunching as Crowley slowly and determinedly squeezes him closer. Ivy makes the quietest chuffing noise, something surprised and soft, before he's turning, reaching with his unbandaged hand for the raised angle of Crowley's arm, as if he's desperate to find somewhere to lock onto, so he can squeeze him back.

Without his glasses, Aziraphale can see Crowley's expression perfectly. The way it moves from confused, almost reluctant, comfort to something entirely different. Something that surrenders, and allows itself to feel.

"I think I'll go and make us all some tea," Aziraphale says quietly, he pushes himself to his feet, gently brushing at the soil on his knee, in such a way that the stain finds itself elsewhere.

He leaves them tucked together, among the vibrant green of the plants.

-

Aziraphale can hear Crowley talking quietly while he boils the kettle. He even hears the occasional noise from Ivy, though he doesn't try to listen in. Eventually he hears the sound of footsteps moving from the room where the plants are kept to the office. Though Aziraphale isn't sure whether it can still technically be called an office, after being altered so much for their strange, new arrangement. It's been expanded to fit in two bookshelves, a new sofa, an armchair, and a cabinet filled with Ivy's toys, sunglasses and the few shiny objects, leaves and feathers that have taken his fancy. Aziraphale is surprised how much it's starting to feel like home. He doesn't think that - he _hopes_ that Crowley wouldn't mind if he admitted as much. 

He makes three cups of tea, Ivy still doesn't drink it, but he enjoys having something warm to hold, and the slow waft of steam that drifts upwards. Aziraphale sets them all on a tray, with a plate of biscuits, and some paper napkins in case of mishaps, before lifting the whole thing and carrying it out.

He finds Crowley sprawled on the sofa, feet thrown up on the coffee table that didn't exist a moment ago, and seems exactly the right sort of place to put the tray of mugs down. Ivy is folded into Crowley's side, legs tucked beneath him. Aziraphale is very surprised to find that they have a book open between them, the glossy shine of greenery visible on the pages.

"See, this one's a thousand years old." Crowley jabs the page. "Right in the middle of the rainforest. It's made an entire ecosystem of its own - er, it's feeding all of the plants around it. See, it's in charge of everything that goes on. All the insects and birds and fungi, they live, and nest, and burrow, in its trunk and leaves, and it grows around them. Look at the way the vines stretch all the way across the forest floor."

Ivy gives a little bark of agreement, non-bandaged fingers wriggling excitably. Aziraphale underestimated the rate of Ivy's regeneration. His other hand has already managed to produce everything up to the last knuckle. Though the sun was out for a while this afternoon. Ivy always has more energy when he's had some direct sunlight.

Ivy carefully turns a page at Crowley's urging.

"I'm teaching him that he's a beautiful, majestic and unique being," Crowley mutters, without looking up. "Who cannot be replaced, or regrown."

Oh, that is a rather lovely sentiment. Though Aziraphale believes that Crowley is teaching him rather more than that. But he suspects any attempt to offer the information will be met with hissing and protests, and he has no wish to ruin their moment.

"Quite right," Aziraphale says with a nod, and passes them both their mugs. Ivy's is sturdy and covered in sunflowers. Crowley had never admitted to buying it for him, had insisted that it had somehow just appeared in his flat one day. But Aziraphale knows him far too well.

He seats himself on the other side of Ivy, and Crowley shuffles the book a touch more to the left, so it rests in Ivy's lap, perfectly in the middle. Ivy strokes the glossy pages with the delicate, growing tendrils of his bandaged hand. The other now curled around his mug. There's a soft, wavering hum in his throat as his eyes sweep over the picture of a tree's tangled root system.

"Should have known Ivy would like the idea of jungles. The houseplants I grow are a pretty poor demonstration of all the things plants can achieve after all, all the niches they've managed to fill, ancient structures they've managed to strangle to dust. Look, Ivy, this one's root system stretches for fifty miles. Bit more than your toes, eh, petal?"

Ivy's toes make rustling sounds as they scrunch rhythmically beneath him. He looks at Aziraphale, smile wide beneath his pale cheeks, and gives a quiet cough, pointing at the picture of a rainforest canopy under a fall of rain.

"I think he wants one of us to read it to him," Aziraphale realises.

Crowley settles himself more comfortably in the cushions, free arm thrown up across the back of the sofa, so he can ruffle Ivy's hair. His mouth pulls into a smile, and he gestures a hand towards the page. His meaning is perfectly clear, and Aziraphale knows that Crowley's eyes are not well-suited to the task. He also knows that the demon is not a fan of reading out loud.

"Alright, let's see what we have." Aziraphale leans in a little closer, so they can all view the page together.

_"The rainforests are forests which receive high levels of rainfall in a yearly period, and are comprised of four layers, the emergent layer, the canopy layer, the understory layer, and the forest floor..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ivy has chopped off pieces of himself as cuttings. This has not harmed him and he almost immediately regenerates the parts. Aziraphale and Crowley work through how distressing this is for them, and they eventually bond as a family over pictures of rainforests - which Crowley decides is a better example for Ivy than the houseplants.


	8. New Friends

The folded piece of paper that Anathema had been given doesn't do a particularly good job of explaining anything.

Oh, it gives information, it provides instructions, and one slightly disturbing warning. But she can't help but think that a lot of very important background information has been assumed.

Crowley and Aziraphale hadn't really offered much besides the note, nothing beyond the fact that there was a very important book fair that Crowley absolutely had to take his angel to, and could her and Newt please - the angel had added the please - look after their responsibility for the day?

Which had turned out to be their _child_. Anathema hadn't even known that they had a child together. She feels like springing that on her after the fact is a little rude. Not to mention the fact that she's not sure she's even equipped, from a purely metaphysical standpoint, to look after the offspring of a demon and an angel.

She looks down at the note, which is a bunched collection of words right in the middle of a piece of fancy, thick A4 paper. It's written in impatiently spiky, almost illegible, handwriting. It hasn't changed but she reads through it one more time, just to be certain. She's something of an expert in reading things a few times to catch underlying meaning.

_This is Ivy, he's a plant-demon hybrid, he's 10 months old. He likes water, colours, and to squeeze things. He will take his shoes off but we're trying to teach him to keep them on for outdoor trips. Try to keep him away from sharp things, or he might cut bits of himself off (though we've taught him that this is **wrong**.) But don't panic, he can grow body parts back if anything happens. NOISES: Barking - Surprise/greeting/attention. Humming/Wooing - happy. Hiccups - upset/sad. Coughing/Fast Exhales - amused/playful. Clicking - frustrated/curious. Whistling - lonely/consoling._

Anathema looks over her glasses at said plant-demon hybrid. He's currently sitting cross-legged in a chair in her kitchen. He's been there for twenty minutes, and he seems content humming to himself and gently touching the flowers that she'd put in a vase in the middle of the table. The instructions lead her to assume that he can't talk - or at least that he can't talk yet?

He looks almost exactly like the demon, though there's something a bit more _new_ to him, a bit more careful, as though he's not quite used to his own limbs yet. He'd also obviously rejected his parent's desire for monochrome, and instead has chosen to be a riot of bold colour. He's wearing bright blue trousers, a yellow t-shirt and a red waistcoat. A pair of orange-rimmed glasses are perched crookedly on his head and one stripy red and blue flip-flop is dangling from surprisingly long toes (the other shoe is under the kitchen table.) His mouth is moving restlessly, offering quiet, crooning bursts of air, as he examines the salt and pepper pots in the middle of the table with long, spindly fingers. He seems delighted by the animal faces on them.

He's been smiling since he arrived. He seems to smile a lot. Anathema has tentatively decided that he gets that from Aziraphale.

She'd tried to look at Ivy's aura a few times, but the whole thing is such a chaotic throb of colour and movement that she'd had to immediately stop looking at it. The feeling was similar to the streaming, endless bursts of colour that sometimes drift off a field of flowers in early Summer, only condensed and then magnified a thousand-fold. Threaded through with something that feels like a banked fire. Plant-demon hybrid. There doesn't seem to be any angel to him? But then perhaps the both of them couldn't...together? Maybe they'd gotten creative? She couldn't fault them for that.

She's not sure how it would work exactly, she doesn't think they're entirely corporeal when they're not...presenting as people? Though she suspects that if she speculates on it too hard then the angel and demon will know somehow. She'd rather not contemplate them knowing any of the perfectly understandable thoughts that have passed through her head in regards to Ivy's existence.

Anathema seats herself opposite him, hands on the table. Ivy looks up and smiles at her, and it looks so genuine that she can't help but smile back.

"Hello, Ivy, I'm Anathema."

Ivy blinks his big, gold eyes at her and gives a short crack of sound from his throat, that tapers off into a hum.

She consults the piece of paper. Which seems to suggest this is a good sign.

"It's nice to meet you too," she tells him. 

Ivy smiles wider, a pepperpot still rolling in his hand. The fingers of the other are scratching slowly at the table, before they spread open, point slowly in her direction. A curious sort of flutter to them. Though he stops shy of touching her fingers, head tipping as if to see her face from a different angle.

She has to wonder how many new people he's met. If he was given any instructions for how to behave. What does good behaviour look like to someone who's partly flora?

He lifts his glasses out of his hair and shows them to her, in the way children sometimes do when they have something they like. A friendly overture. She takes them carefully and admires them. They're not cheap plastic, they're a more durable and stylish affair, with side pieces to better hide his eyes. She suspects that they hadn't originally come in bright orange.

"They're lovely," she tells him. She folds them and sits them by the vase. "I'll leave them here so they don't get knocked off the table."

His fingers wave, seemingly in agreement.

"Would you like a drink?" Anathema asks him. There'd been nothing on the list about food or drink but plants eat and drink, so perhaps Ivy does too? "I don't know if you drink. I'm afraid they didn't leave me a lot of information about your needs. And I don't know how capable you are of filling in some of the blanks for me." She's more than willing to listen, if he has a way to tell her.

Ivy lifts a hand and waves it gently - after a pause he seems to realise she doesn't understand, and makes a strange, jerky motion with his head that might be a nod. She's going to take it as a nod. The wave happens again and she realises it almost looks like someone taking hold of something, or asking for something.

"Of course." She pushes her chair back and gets up, fills a glass from the sink and settles it on the table in front of him. Ivy makes a pleased noise, both hands squeezing together, before lifting to wrap around the glass and slowly pull it in close. He just holds it for a moment, his sharp, inhuman eyes seemingly fascinated by the way the water inside sways. The way it reflects the light coming in through the window.

He's a plant, of course he is.

Anathema leans over the sink and pushes the curtains all the way apart, to let more light into the kitchen. Which tugs Ivy's smile a fraction wider, has him tipping his head for the morning sun, and wins Anathema a strangely discordant collection of sounds. She can see his fingers squeezing the glass. 

"Do you need any help drinking?" She asks him. "I think I have some straws somewhere."

Ivy makes a quiet, crooning noise, his head swaying back and forth in what seems to be a no. She's trying to work out exactly how intelligent he is. The note suggested his communication skills were rudimentary at best, but he seems to be listening, and he seems to understand most of what she's saying. She's considering trying to ask him more questions when the door opens, spilling Newt into the cottage.

"Sorry, sorry, there was a queue, and there was a woman - she was a bit annoyed that I refused to use the self-service." He pushes the door shut behind him, gesturing with his bag. "Picked up some eggs too, since I noticed we'd run out."

Ivy waves when Newt looks up, with the hand that isn't holding the pepperpot.

Newt smiles nervously and waves back, because of course he does. "I got some things that might work for him." He frowns briefly. "They didn't actually specify...well, anything, and I wasn't entirely sure what to get so I got a bit of everything." He struggles his way out of his coat while juggling the bag in his other hand.

"I'm sure you did the best you could," Anathema tells him. Because he always does.

He tries to smile at her and hang his coat up at the same time, not entirely successfully.

"Right, they said he's ten months, so I suppose - I mean, that would be a baby if he was human, he'd be learning to, umm, stand up and walk. But he's already walking around and he can make noises to communicate at least and - oh, the note said he liked colours so I got him -" Newt pulls a colouring book and a pack of felt tip pens out of the bag. "They only had a horse-riding one, but there's outdoor scenes, flowers and things. I thought maybe he'd like them."

He sets them on the table in front of Ivy. Who gives a curious series of clicks, fingers rolling over the packet of fifteen colours with a long, droning hum that suggests he's pleased by the gift. Though he makes no move to do anything but pet the coloured pens through the plastic. His oddly sharp, shiny nails tapping at the stretch of it.

"Oh, here, I'll open them for you." Newt slips the plastic top open and pulls them all out.

The pens spill gently in front of their guest, the colours knocking into his fingers, and he gives a quick bark and then a softer humming noise. Anathema doesn't have to check the paper to know that's a happy one. He smiles at Newt, who keeps insisting he's awful with people but still seems to have an instinctive need to help them. 

Ivy watches as the pens are slowly pushed across the table towards him, his thin fingers waving briefly in Newt's direction. Anathema suspects that Ivy has many hand signals and gestures that have meaning, but these weren't written down. Which is something of an annoyance. Still they're both clever, hopefully they can pick some of them up.

Ivy's collecting the pens slowly together, into an order of his own devising. She's not sure exactly how plants process colour, or how demons process colour. Crowley's serpent eyes would suggest some snake characteristics to his vision, but it's fairly obvious that he isn't colour-blind. She's not sure anyone has ever made a demon-plant hybrid before. Ivy and the way he functions and perceives the world may be completely unique.

"I don't think he knows what they are." Anathema leans against the table so she can open the colouring book and push it in front of Ivy. There's a smiling girl petting a horse in an open field. "You use them in the book, Ivy."

Ivy is rolling the purple pen, looking from her to the book with his big, yellow eyes. Nope, he still doesn't get it.

"It's called colouring," Newt tells him. He seems to have a moment of indecision before he drags a chair over to sit down beside the plant demon. "You put the colours in the book." He picks up the green pen and un-caps it, holds the book open and reaches over to slowly colour in a few blades of grass.

Ivy gives a very loud bark, spine bending, toes pressing to the kitchen floor so he can lean in, like a flower stretching towards the sun. He watches Newt complete a large blade of grass, fingers straightening and scrunching frantically on the other page, in a way that feels excited. It makes Newt's careful colouring briefly scratch outside the leaves, but Anathema thinks he gets it. Oh, he definitely gets it.

"Here." Newt offers over the pen, which Ivy quickly takes in his thin hand. "You try it."

Ivy's grip is a little clumsy, more of a fist than a hold, he's clearly never held a pen before, but he's obviously excited. The plastic squeaks when he brings it to the page. He very slowly starts to messily fill the grass with green lines. The noise he makes in response to the colour spreading across the page is high, wavering and clearly overjoyed.

"There you go. You've pretty much got it. I know they tell you to, but you don't have to stay inside the lines if you don't want to. Put the colour wherever you want it. I think the whole point is to enjoy yourself."

Ivy makes a noise that sounds a bit like a sneeze, which Newt doesn't think was on the list of communication sounds, his legs gently slide back and forth on the floor beneath him.

-

Ivy colours at the table, without pause, for two hours. A low, soft humming rolling around in his throat. It's a continuous noise that seems to confirm that he doesn't need to breathe like they do.

Newt watches him, occasionally refilling his cup of tea, and disappearing a biscuit or three every time. Sometimes Ivy will follow the lines of the pictures, filling horse-shapes with smeared blocks and streaks of colour, sometimes he'll fill them with clumsy lines, that criss-cross and pull inwards like a web, sometimes he'll simply draw over the picture, spirals and impossible shapes and wobbly lines. It takes Newt a while to work out that it seems to correspond to the amount of sunlight in the kitchen as the clouds drift overhead. As if what he's seeing changes depending on the levels of light available. But he's still smiling, the fingers of his other hand squeezing the pens he's not using, making that soft, crooning hum of delight, switching from purple - to blue - to yellow, leaving the pen lids off to scatter across the table.

His thin fingers are covered in spots and streaks of colour, some of which Newt suspects he left there himself. His entire right thumb is pale blue.

Just out of interest Newt gets up and draws the curtains - watches Ivy blink a few times, and then go back to painstakingly colouring in the shapes on the page.

"Anathema?"

She looks up from the armchair in the other room, book settled in her lap, fingers tapping on the page.

"Yeah?"

"Could you google how plants see for me, please?"

She pushes her glasses up her nose and makes a curious noise. "I was actually wondering that myself earlier." She leans back to retrieve her phone from the bookshelf, where Newt is not allowed to touch it. He hangs in the doorway while she thumbs her way to an answer.

"The answer is...well, it's complicated by the looks of it." Anathema frowns and pushes her glasses up. "Apparently they have photoreceptors all through their stems and leaves. It allows them to differentiate between red and blue light. They can also see into the far red and ultraviolet spectrum. Which - I don't know if that translates to his skin. Or even how much of him exactly is plant matter?" She looks up. "Why, did Ivy do something?"

Newt gestures at the window. 

"I think what he sees changes depending on the levels of light available. He colours differently when the sun goes in. But when it's bright he just draws over the picture, a load of weird shapes and spirals and things." Newt isn't sure if it's involuntary or not, but he opens the curtains again. There's the expected pause at the spread of sunlight, and the thick blocks of colour become thin spiderwebs of purple, mostly set inside a prize-winning horse. "Maybe it makes him feel creative, perhaps we should get him some paper, let him draw on his own?" he considers.

-

While Anathema throws together a salad for lunch, Newt shows Ivy some of the other things he'd picked up at the shop. Anathema had taken one look at Ivy, six foot tall and half plant, and just said 'things for a child.' 

Newt had done his best. 

But Ivy is surprisingly easy to please. He likes the doll, but it turns out to be not quite sturdy enough to cope with him trying to change the clothes that it came wearing into its white ballerina outfit. Newt can't pop the arms back in, no matter how hard he tries. He also likes the bubble blowers, even if he finds pursing his mouth to blow them out difficult. Newt pops Ivy's flip-flops back on, and takes him outside, teaches him how to pull the thing through the air to get the bubbles to come out. Which seems to thrill him, and Ivy spends half an hour making bubbles and then trying to hold them with his hands. The ones that he misses, he slowly follows around the garden, making sharp noises of delight, and barking coughs of sound as they land and pop on the grass, and the flowers, and the small shed where Anathema keeps all her slightly more noxious ingredients.

Ivy doesn't seem to know what to do with the balls, but he definitely likes the colours. He loses a few of them over the hedge when he squeezes too hard. But he seems to find that more amusing than upsetting. Newt spends a while rolling them back and forth in the grass with him, after learning that Ivy isn't very good at catching. His arms and hands don't seem to work fast enough. Newt's noticed that the plant-demon does everything quite slowly, there's a languid sort of feel to the movements of his long legs, and spindly arms. He reaches for things readily enough, but he doesn't run, and there's an unhurried, swaying sort of movement to his walk, as if he'd learnt how people were supposed to walk with bones, but doesn't have to if he doesn't want to. Newt's not sure if Ivy is conserving energy, for some reason, or if he simply doesn't have enough to spare for constant reactions.

Ivy doesn't eat lunch with them, though Newt makes him a sandwich, just in case, leaving it on a small plate at his elbow. Instead he nurses a tall glass of water, as if it's a precious gift, while Newt chats with Anathema across the table. Occasionally Ivy will interject his own noises into their conversation, which Anathema replies to with a smile and a nod, as if he's taking part. Though Newt doesn't know him well enough to work out if he's genuinely joining in, or simply enjoying their voices. He's obviously used to sharing dinner with people though, and Newt supposes that's nice. 

He seems content.

-

Anathema had found a blank notepad upstairs, and Ivy had been drawing to himself for a while, the empty bubble-blower pots tucked to his elbow, in a way that suggests they were his favourite toy. Newt wonders if he should mention to his rather terrifying parents that they can be refilled with a bit of washing up liquid and some water when they come to collect him. He's not sure if either of them have a garden. But Ivy had seemed to enjoy creating something he could touch.

Newt thinks that Ivy's currently trying to draw a person. Though they seem to be made mostly of spirals, and he's only using the black, red and orange pens. It's a wobbly, bipedal shape with too many limbs, filled with whirls, loops and long, springy coils. The head is just coloured in completely with the orange pen. But - after a long, strange pause - Ivy adds some black circles with lines coming out of them that Newt suspects are supposed to be sunglasses.

"Oh, it's Crowley," he realises.

Ivy barks, but it's a faster, lighter version of his 'hello' sound. It feels more like a confirmation. Newt suspects it's Ivy's version of 'yes,' or perhaps 'that's right.'

"It's very good," he offers. "It took me ages to think of putting details in so people could be recognised. And you should have seen my first attempt at an elephant."

Ivy stops drawing long enough to turn a smile on him and a wavering coughing noise. Newt feels as if labelling it 'amused and curious' is a fairly safe bet.

"I know, it was terrible. It looked a bit like a whale, and a sad one at that. I don't know if you've ever seen an elephant?"

Ivy makes an odd hooning noise, which fades slowly. That feels more like a denial.

"No, well maybe your parents could take you to the zoo sometime?" he suggests. "So you could see some animals."

Ivy looks up at him, pen flicking back and forth in his flexing fingers, bare toes squeaking on the floor, and he gives a soft echoey hum. He seems to like that idea. Maybe someone braver than Newt could mention it to them.

The next figure he starts working on is easy enough to guess. Pressed as it is close to the first, their wobbly coils spiralling together at the edges. Though it starts off circular and shapeless, before legs are overlaid on top of other legs, arms the same. It's almost as if Ivy's trying to draw people in motion. Or something that's both a person and not at the same time.

Newt watches him for a bit. "I used to add the people's names to my pictures, so they knew for certain which one was them."

Ivy stops drawing, nails scratching on his picture. He gives a soft, considering hum. Then he awkwardly hands Newt a pen.

"You want me to write their names?" he asks, to make sure.

Ivy makes the 'yes' sound again.

Newt very carefully turns the paper. "Right, let's see then." He realises immediately that he doesn't know how to spell Aziraphale. He leans sideways in the chair until he can see Anathema in the living room, book in her lap, feet tucked under her.

"Anathema, how do you spell Aziraphale?"

She looks up over her glasses, to where Newt is poised over Ivy's drawing. "A...Z...I...R...A...P...H...A...L...E," she recites for him.

"Thank you." 

Newt slips a blank sheet of paper out of the book and very quickly writes the alphabet on it. Then he shows Ivy which letters make up the angel's name, and then sounds every one out while he slowly writes it so Ivy can see, beneath the smiling figure with yellow starburst hair, and a long, glowing, amorphous body coloured in yellow, blue and brown.

"And Crowley's name under this one?" He points.

Ivy gives a wobbly nod, smiling and making quiet but excited popping noises into Newt's hair.

"Ok, that's this letter here to start -" Newt makes the sounds again, as he would for any other small child, adding them beneath the black, red and yellow swirls contained in a wobbly exterior. He thinks about it for a minute and then picks up the green pen. He slips it into Ivy's cold fingers, then makes sure he has a good grip. "Normally when people make a picture for their parents, they sign their name right here -" He points to the bottom right corner. "Do you want to do that?"

"Ah," Ivy says. Which feels like enthusiastic agreement.

"Right then." Newt points to the I. "This is the first letter of your name." He finds the V. "Then this one." Finally the Y. "This one at the end, that's your name. So when people look at it they'll know you drew it."

Ivy very carefully lays the three letters that make up his own name on the bottom corner of the picture. They're a little wobbly, with an awkward slant to them. But it unmistakably reads... _Ivy_.

"There you go, that's all of you, I don't know if your...umm, if they have a fridge to put it on, that's where pictures that people's kids draw normally go. Ivy barks a reply, the end of it falling into a loud hum that Newt can feel the vibration of a foot away. He thinks Ivy likes the idea of that. Newt gets the impression he hasn't had the opportunity to make things of his own much. The angel and the demon seem like they can create stuff out of thin air, and if Ivy hasn't - well, hasn't inherited any of that, then making things has to be a bit more exciting for him.

-

At ten past five Anathema gets up and goes to the door.

Newt, who trusts her spooky judgement, takes that as his cue to help Ivy put his stripy flip-flops back on, and tuck the pens back into their plastic pouch, much to Ivy's obvious disappointment. Newt doesn't need the note to know that the broken hiccups of sound are upset.

"It's alright, Ivy, you can take them all home with you. And maybe you'll bring them back with you next time - if there's a next time?" Newt isn't sure if he should be encouraging the terrifyingly powerful supernatural family to become more entwined in their lives, but Ivy seems nice enough.

Ivy gives a curious coughing bark, watching Newt put the pens, colouring book, drawing pad, balls and empty bubble blower pots into a carrier bag. After a moment he puts the broken doll and its spare outfit in there too. Then he hands it to Ivy, who seems to gently vibrate with joy, before shaking the bag and then squeezing the thin plastic handle so hard it crumples into a ball. Newt's never seen anyone so happy to have a goody bag to take home.

"Yes, that's all yours to keep. Do you have your picture?"

Ivy turns back to the table, retrieves the piece of paper very slowly and carefully in wriggling fingers, before holding it up to show him.

"Ah!" he says.

"There you go, you're all set, and don't forget to let them know you want it on the fridge."

Ivy smiles, toes squeezing inside his sandals. He still seems excited by the concept.

Newt hears the door open, quickly followed by the soft-voiced greeting of what he now knows to be an angelic being, and the gravel-soft drone of what he knows to be something else entirely. Ivy waves a hand towards him, like a small child expecting to be led. Newt takes it in his own. It's cold and thin, and feels much less like a human hand than he's expecting. But Ivy's noise seems pleased and he gives gentle, rhythmic squeezes to Newt's fingers as he leads him out into the hall.

His...parents are standing by the door, looking disturbingly like an oddly mismatched but perfectly normal middle-aged couple - which Newt doesn't think is entirely fair. Ivy makes a lot of quick noises in succession, so Newt decides to just take a guess.

"It was nice to have you. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself." He doesn't miss the way Crowley is frowning at him over his sunglasses.

"Yes, it was very nice to meet you, Ivy," Anathema adds, gently squeezing his long arm as he heads for the door. "You're welcome to come back any time and visit."

The demon's eyebrows are furrowed tightly now, suggesting that his hidden expression is...not pleased. Newt quickly looks away, just in case that's a thing that you're not supposed to do, look straight at demons, or think things about them where they can hear you.

Ivy distracts the pair of them by showing them his picture - and Newt watches surprise smack two immortal beings in the face like a lead pipe.

"He drew it himself." He feels compelled to say. He suspects it's more of a nervous response than anything else. But Ivy barks agreement and gestures with moving fingers at the wobbly representation of his family.

"Hmm," Ivy tells the two terrifyingly powerful supernatural beings that are his parents. He moves his fingers between the carefully but clumsily drawn figures, as if they might not know which ones they were. "Ah!"

Crowley's face does something complicated, as if it's not quite sure what shape it wants to be.

"S'good," he says eventually, sounding like he'd spent the last ten minutes drowning. "Looks just like us."

Ivy shows it to Aziraphale, who slowly takes it from him, still wearing an expression of surprise.

"He's drawn us," Aziraphale says faintly, as if the very concept made no sense. "And he wrote his name. Crowley, can he -"

"N'yeah, I know, let's just - later, Aziraphale. " Crowley waves an arm, impatient, but then his voice softens. "Come on, petal, time to go."

Ivy stretches an arm out and Crowley takes his hand, Newt doesn't miss the way Ivy squeezes him too. The long length of his arm twitching and pulling, as if he has so many things he wants to get out and no other way to manage it.

Aziraphale is still holding the drawing like it's a priceless artifact.

"Yes, of course." The angel fixes them both with a smile that's very bright. "Thank you so much for watching him for us. We didn't want to leave him with anyone we didn't know, he's in that curious stage -" He looks back down briefly at what he's holding. "That creative stage."

"Aziraphale," Crowley calls from halfway down the path. The sound of Ivy coughing amused reproach at his impatience comes quickly after.

"Of course, of course." He follows them out, stretching a hand out instinctively ahead of him for Ivy to hold -

Newt watches Anathema stare after them, until the car's out of sight.

Then she pushes the door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now adorable artwork of Ivy's very first drawing, done by Tarekgiverofcookies. [Ivy's family picture](https://tarekgiverofcookies.tumblr.com/post/628063172514938880/flowers-from-hell-chapter-1-entanglednow), on the fridge even!


	9. The Flower Blooms

It had taken a while for the surprises of Ivy's visit with Anathema and Newt to sink it. For them both to grapple with the guilty realisation that they'd been missing the obvious signs that Ivy was not only capable of learning but excited and eager to. He was creative and curious and they'd given him so few ways to explore and express that. They were supposed to be nurturing him, challenging him and teaching him, and they'd both failed quite spectacularly.

Crowley had been furious with himself and seemed to be shouldering a quite unnecessary amount of the blame. The first thing he'd done was aggressively pin Ivy's picture to his very expensive fridge, much to the flower's obvious delight. Aziraphale had noticed magnets appearing in the days that followed, as if to promise that there was room for more. A collection of coiled, menacing snakes that brought to mind the loops of the demon's tattoo, several classic cars, a variety of ceramic cartoon cakes, a pair of angel wings, one bumblebee, and a scatter of soft, colourful flowers.

One day, Aziraphale had popped in the kitchen for a biscuit, and instead he’d found himself staring at all of those magnets, gently holding Ivy's loopy and colourful depictions of them to the shining silver surface. He'd felt so impossibly content that his tea had gone cold before he remembered he was holding it.

Crowley's flat had expanded yet again, a small room in the back that caught the sun now held a round rainbow-coloured table surrounded by tall red stools. There were two stacks of colouring books and sketch pads, and a selection of bright pencil cases full of coloured pens and pencils weighing down a shelf on the far wall - also a ceramic duck for some reason. Aziraphale would have to ask about that at some point.

Ivy has taken to leaving his drawings for Crowley around the flat, wobbly pictures of the both of them together. A few with the addition of an extra shape, a mass of ever-expanding circles, surrounded by coloured threads and squiggles, waving and stretching to encompass them both, but never drawn the same way twice. Aziraphale assumes that it's a representation of Ivy himself, and it says deeply interesting things about how he views his own existence. 

Aziraphale wishes that he could question him on it.

Ivy has new sounds too. There's a soft, wavering whistle that feels like excited creativity, or possibly imagination? And a long, hard droning, that Crowley had dubbed irritation, or impatience. But to Aziraphale it feels more like desperate frustration. A need to show them things, to explain, to question.

Aziraphale is determined to help him with that, and when Crowley says he's going to take a few days - a week at most - to nap, it feels like the perfect opportunity. He'd been terribly annoyed to begin with, because he'd spent hundreds of years collecting books, and yet he has very little that would serve as an introduction for a child - or as close to one as made no difference. Until he remembered that Adam had seen fit to expand his collection after the end of the world. There was now a whole shelf full of children's books by the window, slipped in as if it had always been there, a suggestion that perhaps he should be more willing to accept new ideas and new perspectives. Aziraphale has to wonder if the boy had any inkling - even if only subconsciously - of exactly how things were going to play out?

The children's books are first editions though, and Ivy deserves something he can call his own, something he can squeeze and carry around and prod his way through if he wants to. He deserves to build his own relationship with books, even if that means being more like his - being more like Crowley and rejecting them entirely. Which Aziraphale will accept and try not to be too disappointed about.

He asks a few customers for recommendations for books to read to children, and Roald Dahl's name comes up often enough to feel like a good starting point. He takes a determined trip to a nearby bookshop - which feels rather clandestine and traitorous - and spends a while perusing many shelves filled with colourful spines, big letters and laughing faces. He eventually decides that James And The Giant Peach is a sufficiently plant-based starting point for them both.

He finds Ivy in the atrium, watering the plants, sharing whatever strange and curious thoughts go through his head in short barks and clicks as he pads from pot to pot. His bare feet and shins are dotted with spilled soil, suggesting he'd already spent some time kneeling to make noises at the saplings.

Aziraphale waits until he's finished and then leads him back into the living room.

"I have something for you." He hands the bag to Ivy and encourages him to open it. The book inside is small, the cover glossy and smooth. It still smells of the print, and it takes a few firm but reassuring gestures to make Ivy understand that this book is for him, that he can touch it and hold it as much as he likes. Perhaps he could even write his name in it, he seems to like putting his name on things, much to Aziraphale's occasional distress.

It's clear that Ivy likes the round peach on the front, though he touches the spindly representations of what look like anthropomorphic insects too. Aziraphale knows his eyes don't work like Crowley's, but he thinks the flower can see in the human spectrum if he chooses to. That last mote of uncertainty was the reason he'd left several flower-based picture books on the shelf.

"I confess, I haven't read this one either," Aziraphale tells him.

There's an amused huff of disbelief, a tap of thin fingers on the cover.

"Yes, yes, I know, perhaps I've been a little unfairly dismissive in the past towards children's literature." Aziraphale sways gently and then gestures behind him, where Crowley's comfortable grey sofa sits, currently decorated with black and tartan cushions and one of Ivy's discarded jumpers. "Would you like to learn the story together?"

Ivy barks agreement and extends the book, waves it at Aziraphale. He takes it from him and settles on the sofa, then pats the seat next to him. Ivy is already moving, already slithering into that offered space and tucking himself under Aziraphale's arm with sharp sounds of excitement. His fingers make raspy noises on the cushions as he shuffles them around himself until they bury his feet. 

"You can follow the words with me if you like?"

For someone who doesn't technically have any bones, Ivy is still remarkably pokey. He doesn't have Crowley's air of sharpness, or his angular sway and stalk, but he still has the same thin limbs, the same sharp curves and hard edges. Though in Ivy's case it's where knots of vine and hard clusters of greenery must have grown and strengthened to support his human-like movements. Aziraphale wonders if Crowley has noticed the same thing. It's hard not to as Ivy gently sprawls himself against his side, cold through his t-shirt but always more than happy to curl around the warmth of them. He loops one arm around Aziraphale's elbow while leaving the other free to gently pat the book.

Aziraphale slips his glasses on and gently opens it, skips the introduction and finds the start.

"Right, let's begin shall we?"

"Ah," Ivy agrees.

Aziraphale reads the first few pages, where the poor boy's parents suffer a terrible fate, and he's forced to go and live with his two aunts - who treat him very poorly indeed. It's a bit more gruesome than he was expecting, though Aziraphale has watched enough children to know that this was probably part of the appeal. Ivy squeezes his hand while he reads, giving quiet huffs when he does the voices, and occasionally stopping him from turning the page until he's run his fingers over the illustrations. 

Almost by accident Aziraphale finds himself making hand gestures towards Ivy to try and provide something in the way of an atmosphere, so he'll feel more involved. Ivy makes them back, all excited movements, barks and scratching fingers, and it doesn't occur to Aziraphale until page thirty four what that means.

He lays a hand on the book, turns a little so he can see Ivy's face.

"Ivy, darling, do you remember the peach?" he asks.

He watches Ivy make a circle with his fingers and thumb, and then shake it gently. A hum rolling around in his throat.

"And the spider?"

Ivy curls his hand over and makes his fingers crawl across Aziraphale's arm with a quick cough of amusement.

Aziraphale has a lot of thoughts in a very short space of time. Eventually he takes a deep breath.

"Do you know please?" That one is quieter, because he thinks they might have been very stupid indeed.

Ivy blinks slowly, then makes a soft grasping motion. One that Aziraphale has seen him do dozens of times, and he's always known what it meant, even if it hadn't connected to any other blasted thought in his head.

"Book?" he offers.

Ivy's whole hand pinches in half, a motion that Aziraphale has made a thousand times when he's shutting a book.

"Sunglasses?" he asks, not really expecting anything.

Ivy blinks for a moment, swaying while he thinks. Eventually he makes an awkward grasping motion at the side of his face, which looks an awful lot like Crowley dragging his glasses off, and Aziraphale suspects that his beautiful, clever child just made it up on the spot because he asked him to.

"We're fucking idiots," Aziraphale says, with feeling.

Ivy whistles sharply.

"Yes, I know that was a bad word. But it's still true." He tugs Ivy in, squeezes him until he gives a wavering hum of delight. "I am so sorry," he says quietly. "I am so very sorry, my darling." Aziraphale clears his throat, pushes his glasses up his nose and opens the book again. Then he kicks his 6000 year old brain into gear and presses his fingers to Ivy's.

"Right, let's learn this book together shall we now? And maybe if you feel like it we can teach you to use some words?"

Ivy hums into the curve of his shoulder, fingertips pushing into Aziraphale's.

-

Crowley ambles into the kitchen to retrieve coffee from the machine that knows better than to deny him, plugged in or not. He's mostly awake and running enough of his corporation that he's off the ceiling and prepared to make conversation. The sound of Aziraphale wandering about in his living room, trailing the sound of turned pages and the smell of early morning tea is reassuring enough that he decides not to threaten the coffee machine for slow service after all. The idea that the angel sometimes just forgets to go home for days at a time, and the fact that he treats Crowley's space as his own now - he's sort of hoping that if he never mentions it or acknowledges it then eventually Aziraphale will realise that he just _belongs_ here. 

He picks up his mug and slinks his way in to join the angel. He also finds Ivy, curled on the sofa with a big sketchpad balanced in his lap. He appears to be trying to colour with both a green and yellow pen in the same hand. His coordination is just about managing it, to his quiet chuffs of satisfaction, though his fingers are probably taking as much ink as the paper. Ivy looks up when Crowley ventures close enough, gives a pleased bark of greeting while his other hand lifts and does an awkward patting gesture at him.

"Oh, that's ' _good morning_ ,'" Aziraphale says, with more enthusiasm than Crowley is expecting right by his elbow.

"Wha -?" He lowers his coffee. "What's good morning?"

Aziraphale smiles and gestures at Ivy. "That - well, it's actually more like ' _daytime_ ' or ' _suntime_.' I think Ivy has difficulty with measurements of time. I'm not sure he perceives it quite like we do. He seems to break it into either the sun being out, or not. Understandable really when you take into account its importance to him."

"What?" Crowley says again, because he's been asleep for five days, he's only managed half of his coffee and Aziraphale is speaking very fast. Crowley can recognise his pleased-but-nervous voice, as if he's done something he's happy about but he knows that Crowley's going to have _opinions_.

"I taught Ivy a few words, a few things he can communicate with gestures that will hopefully let him feel more involved when we have conversations. He's been so patient with us, and really it's all our fault for not seeing it, but better late than never as they say." Aziraphale's face pinches briefly. "We're getting there, we've been getting there. You'll have your own suggestions for him obviously. I did think about waking you but when I popped my head in you looked so - well, he's made excellent progress." He waves a fist encouraging.

Crowley stares at Ivy over his mug. The flower is squeezing his pens and grinning over the squeaky click of them, his original strange gesture now seems to be joined by two others.

"You taught Ivy to talk." Crowley finds himself saying. It doesn't come out as an expression of surprise, it comes out as something certain, something expected. Of course Aziraphale could do this thing, he has the books, he has the patience, he has the friendly exterior. Of course if Ivy was smart enough then eventually Aziraphale was going to give him words. "You taught him to talk."

"Oh, it's not quite - it's not entirely talking," Aziraphale insists. "He's very good at knowing words but I don't think he has much of a grasp on sentences or structuring a thought yet. It's more an excited conveyance of information, and a lot of repetition - though I suspect that's due to the appeal of having something new to explore as a concept. I've seen him make some very strange connections, that I'm not sure whether to call mistakes since they could point to a rather unique view of the world and its interconnectedness due to his plant nature. He does have an excellent memory though, I've counted -"

"You taught Ivy to talk." It's finally sunk in, and Crowley sets his half-drunk coffee down, abandons it entirely. The tightness in his upper body is threatening to push him into doing something stupid, like reaching out and squeezing the angel. For the first time he feels like maybe he understands Ivy's obsession with it. 

Aziraphale blinks at him, and a smile grows on his face at whatever Crowley's own is doing. The angel looks suddenly flustered, shoulders shifting as if he can't contain himself, as if maybe he hadn't quite realised what he'd done, not until Crowley woke up and told him.

"I think he's going to need a lot of help. But he seems excited to try."

Crowley looks at Ivy, who pulls a hand down his chest with an odd little flick, then gives him a strange half salute with all of his fingers.

"What's that? What did he say?" Crowley tries not to demand, he really does,

Aziraphale laughs. "He wants to go in the shower," he tells him.

The shower is usually a twice a week treat, for twenty minutes, on Tuesdays and Fridays. Crowley is fairly sure that today is a Sunday. But he finds that he doesn't care.

"Yes," he decides, because Ivy has more than earned it. "Excellent idea. Ivy, get up, clever plants get showers."

Ivy gives a loud bark of excitement and piles all his pens and paper messily on the coffee table, before padding his way over and catching hold of Crowley's hand, giving a few excited tugs and then just gently vibrating next to him.

"You'll show me all of them, afterwards," Crowley says fiercely. "All the words he can say."

Aziraphale laughs and nods. "Yes, of course, after breakfast, darling. Enjoy your shower, Ivy."

It's not until they're in the bathroom, Ivy excitedly tugging off clothes and humming at the spray of water, that Crowley realises Ivy wasn't the one that last 'darling' was meant for.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Fanart] Flowers From Hell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25054459) by [SkyAsimaru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyAsimaru/pseuds/SkyAsimaru)
  * [Flowers From Hell (Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27161345) by [PanyLuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanyLuna/pseuds/PanyLuna)




End file.
